


True Romance

by Mallaeus



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hook-Up, Horny Teenagers, Jealousy, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 103,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: John Allerdyce spends a lonely night trawling the apps for action, when he receives a message from yet another headless torso. Indulging his mystery man, he meets Bobby, and the two spend a night together which will lead them down the path to a very convenient arrangement indeed.Set against the backdrop of their final year of high school (yes, they're 18), join the boys as they navigate relationships, hookups, families, friends, and feelings.An alternate universe, part of my ongoing X-Men series.
Relationships: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue: Nuclear Seasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going down, basement  
> Friday the 13th  
> Guess who's playing Jason
> 
> I'm back ladies.   
> True Romance is coming to you live and in colour again. The yuletide season is over, which means I'm back on my usual hours at work starting this week.   
> That means I'm gonna be returning to work on this monster, hopefully barrelling through the last 6/7 chapters.  
> Otherwise, I'm posting one chapter a week, except for today's special double feature, on Sundays.

Darkness outside the window — a clear sky pockmarked by stars, the moon swinging thin and low behind a single cotton-swab cloud.

A chill in the air, spring still carrying winter's coat across its arm, unwilling to hang it up and relinquish itself to the summer. 

John laid curled up on his side above the covers, letting the breeze waft over him as he scrolled absently through the seemingly endless parade of profiles on his phone screen. It was Saturday night, and he was bored out of his mind. Bored enough to trawl the apps in search of distraction, even if only for an hour or so. His eyes flitted from his screen, which cast his face in a sickly blue-white glow, searing his retinas, looking up to his alarm clock, which loudly proclaimed in red digits: 09:41. Still enough time to get his rocks off with some willing participant and get himself home before curfew. If only the plentiful fish in the sea were biting. There were the usual headless torsos — men unwilling to show their faces until the very moment it was necessary, as if to give up that knowledge would be enough to destroy the fragile facades they had constructed around themselves. It didn't matter, in any case — he wasn't in the mood to lay under some closet case while he rutted against him like a dog. What few faces there were were familiar — men far older than him with more boldness than sense, others for whom he would be merely a footnote in a very busy night, along with a few his own age who knew him and who he knew in return. They mostly avoided one another out of a sense of awkwardness — an unwillingness to be so close with someone on Saturday night, only to have to sit across from them in Chemistry class on Monday, pretending like you weren't both inside of one another not seventy-two hours beforehand.

He locked his phone, darkness overtaking his vision suddenly once more as the intrusive light source was cut off, and stared at his ceiling. His hand drifted down his chest across his stomach, swirling in absent-minded circles in the hair there. He felt the uneven mould of his body beneath his fingers, his mind recoiling instinctually from his soft exterior. He supposed that probably was the fault of the apps as well, in some way. It couldn't be healthy being endlessly exposed to men who, in some regard, were aesthetically superior to him. Scrolling even through the nearest profiles was a gallery of muscled chests and abundant rear ends. It left him — with his average, skinny-teenager build — feeling mostly inadequate, without even the saving grace of an absurdly large piece between his legs. He sighed, his hand flattening across himself, closing his eyes. 

Beside his head, his phone vibrated, the tell-tale jingle of the app resonating through the thick air of his silent room. He reached for it, flipping it into his palm to look at the screen, spying the message where it sat in the centre, above an email notification from his English teacher. 

_Hey handsome :)_

He chuckled to himself at the simple emoji, the brute use of the punctuation marks more earnest somehow than one of the built-in faces. He unlocked the screen, tapping into his messages to inspect the profile. Quickly, he noticed the avatar — another headless torso, supported by a pair of thick legs, a body probably not far in age from his own, muscled in the way that teenaged bodies so often were. He was lean, a body fat percentage probably close to zero. He probably ate like a pig too, if the guys in John’s classes who looked like that were any reference. Prick. John felt it in his gut, the twist of anxiety, inadequacy rearing its serpentine head to wrap around his stomach once more. He swallowed once, and tapped once more to reply.

_Hey there_

As he waited, he checked out the rest of the guy's profile. A standard display name, a single letter — B — just enough to let you know he was a real person. His bio was short — Here to have fun. Just because I'm on doesn't mean I'm looking ;) — succinct and to the point. His stats were as to be expected — He/Him, 18, Vers Bottom . All he was missing was a face. John figured he kept his face off because he was still in high school. A smart move, although one which John himself had opted to forgo — his own profile picture featuring him sitting in a highly affected pose of nonchalance in front of his bedroom mirror, a scowl turning down the features of his face.

_What brings you here?_

His reply took John out of his thoughts, eyes darting over the words. He breathed deeply, exhaling slowly as he thought of his reply.

_Bored. You?_

_Same. My parents are away tonight, friends aren't doing anything fun :(_

John smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up to glance against his pillow where he lay. B was cutting to the chase, to say the least.

_Oh? I guess you're on here looking for trouble, huh?_

He wasn't sure what had compelled him to say that, but it was too late to reconsider once the message had gone through.

_Lol. I guess you could say that._

He decided to bite the bullet.

_You got a face, B?_

He knew this would be the turning point, the make-or-break part of the exchange.

_Oh, sorry! I'm kind of on this on the down-low, I'm still in high school!_

Accompanying his reply was his profile picture once more, now uncropped, his face visible. It was a standard mirror selfie, him with his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder at himself. He was cute, short brown hair and a pair of blue-grey eyes that looked a hell of a lot more innocent than they had any right to be.

_Oh wow. Wouldn't think you'd hide a pretty face like that._

John was laying it on thick, he knew, but he was intrigued by this guy, and his newfound acquaintance with his face had sent a ripple through his body, a stirring in his pants driving him to that distraction he had been seeking.

_You're sweet. I know you got a face in your profile, but have you got any more? Just so I know you're for real ;)_

He loaded up his photos, shooting two off — a pair of group shots with he and his friends whom he had cropped out for this express purpose. He scrutinised them, picking apart his expression — dour, despite his actual feelings in those moments — and wondered how long it would take for B to block him and their conversation to come to an abrupt end. 

_You're cute :) You feel like coming over?_

John's eyebrows raised of their own accord, shocked at B's boldness.

_Cutting right to it, huh? I don't even know your name…_

Truth be told, John was already on the hook, if the uncomfortable pressure in his underwear was anything to go by. He ran a hand down himself, pressing the heel of his palm in between his legs where he was hard, riding the wave of pleasure as it rocked over him.

_My name's Bobby, what's yours?_

He blinked out of his haze, the words on the screen swimming together lightly before he could focus.

_John._

_Okay John, you feel like coming over and getting some of this?_

Bobby accompanied his reply with another image, altogether more risque than the previous. It was another mirror selfie, on his back this time on his bed, legs thrown into the air, a thick forearm hooked under a knee. He was exposed entirely — the white straps of his jockstrap almost cutting red lines into his pale flesh. John swallowed hard, and typed back.

_Jesus Christ._

He could hear the laugh in Bobby's reply.

_That's what they all say. Are you coming or not?_

He grinned to himself as he responded, a puerile joke working its way into his message.

_Oh I'm coming alright, just depends where._

Bobby seemed to get the hint, and sent his location through the app. John clicked into it, gauging how far away he was from John's place. It looked close enough — maybe twenty minutes on his bike. Enough to be back in time. 

_I'll be a little while getting over, bout twenty minutes. That okay?_

_I guess I can wait for someone as hot as you… You got any other pictures? Little something to keep me going til you get here?_

John's grin grew wide. Bobby knew what he was doing. He decided to play with him a little. 

_You'll have to wait and find out ;)_

John didn't often use emojis, but it felt appropriate. Bobby's reply was swift, the ploy evidently having worked.

_See you soon, don't take too long…_

He rolled off the side of his bed, swinging himself up and towards his closet. It didn't take long to find a pair of sweatpants to hop one-footed into, a hoodie to match it. He took a look at himself in the mirror.

He looked like he was on his way to burglarize houses.

He shrugged, and made his way downstairs, padding gently into the living room where his aunt sat watching a movie play out on the TV — some French crime mystery thriller, replete with subtitles and sour-faced actors with whom John would surely fit in on screen. She turned to him as he made himself known, replacing her wine glass — a single half-measure of white three nights a week, with a bottle of red allowed for special occasions only — on the coffee table. She quirked an eyebrow at him, an inquisitive expression that seemed permanently moulded onto both of their faces.

"You off somewhere?"

He shrugged, affecting nonchalance.

"I'm bored, I was gonna go for a cycle, maybe get some food or something. Is that okay?"

She shrugged back, a perfect mirror of his own movement.

"No problems here. Just make sure you're back before eleven thirty."

"I will," he nodded.

"You need any money?"

He raised a hand.

"I'm good, I'm good. You want me to pick you up anything?"

She leaned over to her purse, and for a second he was prepared to roll his eyes as he anticipated her palming him a twenty. She didn't, however, her hand emerging with a pack of her cigarettes, her peering inside to see how many she had left. Satisfied, she looked back to him, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Do they ID you when you buy smokes down at the gas station?"

"Not if I go to the one where Jenny's son works."

"If you're going there tonight, will you get me a pack?"

"Sure," he said, with a slight grin. He wondered quietly how many of his classmates had exchanges like this with their parents. She waved him off.

"Be safe out there. I'd tell you to wear a helmet but I know you won't."

He laughed softly, grabbing his bike where it was propped up by the front door, and set off into the night.

* * *

Once he got going down his street, he began to wonder if he might not be better off ghosting Bobby, and actually just going for the cycle around the darkened neighbourhood. The night air was cool where it whipped through his hair, down his collar and across the skin of his back. The streets were silent, almost entirely empty save for a few cars — late night grocery store trips, teenaged joyrides, and night workers on their way to start their shifts — and so John was able to ride freely, a far cry from his hectic morning commute to school. The air was full of the scent of summer — the leaves on the trees a deep-hued green, swollen with chlorophyll, perfuming the night. He passed by the empty lot at the end of his street, catching the eye of a fox, scurrying through the undergrowth as it went along its business. He watched it for a moment before pedalling off, unwilling to disturb its peace. 

He knew more or less where he was going. Bobby didn’t live too far from him, but he clearly didn’t go to John’s high school. That wasn’t a surprise, there were a few in the area, given the density of families in their part of the suburbs. He wondered if Bobby went to the expensive private school a couple of miles away. John had had a few experiences with those boys, and they weren’t ones he was keen to repeat. Of the three he had encountered, two were still in the closet, and they had moved inside of John as if they were trying to dig something out of him, as if he contained the seed of their confusion, their parent’s disappointment, and if they were only able to pull it out of him, they might be able to shake off the nausea that wracked their bodies at what they had done with him. The other had been shitty in his own way — an effete little bottom who had fawned over John up until the point that he had refused to allow the kid to film them together for his fansite. He had rolled his eyes — actually rolled his eyes — when John explained to him, in terms that a child could understand, that they — both only seventeen — were minors, which would have made the kid guilty of distributing child porn. Last time he had checked, the kid’s page was still up, which wasn’t surprising.

He had never been sure which encounter had been worse.

The sound of a car horn behind him snapped him out of the reverie he had fallen into at a red light. He had checked his phone as he waited, shooting off another message to Bobby to confirm that he was going the right way.

_Where are you now?_

John’s eyes had flickered to a signpost next to the traffic light, peering at the street names in the dim light, sending them to Bobby.

_I’m where Poplar Street and Ash Tree Lane intersect, the McDonald’s is on my left_

_Okay, keep going until you see the Mormon church, then take the next left, my house is on Birch Avenue, I’ll wait at my front door :)_

John had his foot on the pedal, ready to kick off, when he was interrupted by another text.

_It might be Beech Avenue… I get them mixed up_

And so he had set off once again at the other car’s prompt, shooting past the McDonald’s — yellow arches blurring in his vision — in search of Birch Avenue. Or Beech. He wondered quietly if he had perhaps made a mistake — if he had been catfished, and he was about to pull up to a house with all the lights off, and no Bobby waiting outside for him. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Absently, he had wondered about how safe it was exactly to be shooting off in the night on your bike to a stranger’s house, not knowing who or what to expect when you got there. Once or twice he had backed out halfway through his journey, with some indeterminate swell of anxiety in his stomach telling him that he was about to get his ass beaten to a pulp — and certainly not in the way he had prepared for. 

At that thought, he realized that he and Bobby hadn’t actually discussed what would be going down. John wasn’t in the mood for bottoming, and he most certainly wasn’t ready for it. Surely, having sent a picture of the genre that Bobby had, he must have been in the mood for it. And his profile had used that phrase — Vers Bottom — in which the first word seemed almost exclusively superfluous, in John’s (admittedly limited) experience. 

He would find out soon enough, as he had just passed by the Mormon church Bobby had described, slowing to read the message on their front sign. Whatever it had been was unknown, as someone had rearranged the letters to proclaim some filthy obscenity out into the night. He paused at the first left after the church, taking in the street name — Birch Avenue. Bobby had been right the first time. He took the road slowly, taking in the scale of the houses that lined the street. They were big — bigger than John’s own — and most of them had at least two cars in the driveway, and not cheap ones either. He suddenly began to feel very inadequate, the obvious wealth disparity between he and Bobby compounding on top of the body dysmorphia that seemed inescapable as a gay man. It was too late to pull away however, as his eye was caught by a figure standing in a pool of light outside of a front door, a wave thrown in John’s direction. He turned onto Bobby’s lawn, dismounting from his bike, walking it up to the door where Bobby waited for him, leaning against the doorframe. He looked like his pictures, which was nice, muscles hidden beneath a grey sweatshirt and a pair of red shorts.

“Hey, you made it. And good time too, only fifteen minutes.”

His voice was soft, easy, evidently free of whatever anxieties were eating at John. Which made sense, with a body like that. He threw John a grin, and it took a lot out of him not to go weak at the knees. It was a killer smile, the kind you see on TV, or in advertisements on billboards for your local dentist.

“Traffic’s pretty light at this time of night,” John replied, deadpan. 

Bobby laughed softly, low and melodic. He nodded at John’s bike.

“You can just leave that by the car, if you want. I don’t think anyone in this neighborhood would steal it.”

John took in his car finally, his expectations of some obnoxious BMW monstrosity shattered by Bobby’s simple Ford. He rested the bike gently against it, his hands hovering over the handlebars, waiting for it to fall, Bobby watching amusedly from the door. He turned eventually, satisfied it would remain upright, and moved towards him. Bobby moved back, gesturing for him to come inside, shutting it behind him. John took maybe a half step into the hall, looking around at the interior of Bobby’s house. It seemed normal, a two-floor situation, maybe six rooms on the ground floor. It looked like every other white family’s home in the area, to tell the truth. He was aware of Bobby behind him, the warmth of his body, his breath just barely grazing the back of his neck. He shivered as Bobby moved to wrap his arms around John’s middle, lips glancing against the ridge of his ear. He could feel his body pressed against him, his hips running a subconscious track up and down his back.

“You're so much hotter in person.”

His voice was heavy in John’s ear, a slight waver as he chuckled, pulling away, moving in front of him, a hand outstretched. He jerked his head towards the stairs, lacing their fingers together, pulling John along. 

It was only once the door to Bobby’s bedroom was shut behind them, that John began to relax. He had taken a seat in Bobby’s computer chair, swinging himself in slow half circles. Bobby sat opposite on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide, a pillow propped up behind him, eyes on John’s. Neither spoke for a moment, awkwardness settling between them. It had never gotten any easier for John, the moment between meeting and actually getting down to the act. He had always just relied on his partner to make the first move. Bobby was easy, his grin widening as the minutes ticked by. Eventually, he spoke.

“So, what all are you up for for tonight?”

John shrugged.

“I’m down for whatever. I know we didn’t talk about it but are you okay to bottom? I’m definitely not, but I figured from that picture you sent…” He trailed off, unsure. Bobby, mercifully, threw him yet another crystal-white smile, his head thrown back with a laugh.

“I’m good for that yeah, don’t worry. That’s the picture I usually send whenever I’m in the mood for that.”

“And is that often?” John asked, eyebrow raised, his own grin beginning to take form. Bobby tilted his head, eyes heavy.

“Often enough. I’m no porn star or anything but I get around when I can. And you?” he added, shifting slightly, adjusting his pillow.

“Not as much as I’d probably like, I guess. I dunno. I’ve done a fair bit, yeah.”

Bobby caught the sour note that had creeped into John’s tone, the slight tugging down of his features by the frown which threatened to overtake his smile. Bobby’s brow furrowed, moving forwards, elbows on his knees as he caught John’s now-lowered eyes.

“What’s up? Why the long face all of a sudden?”

John sighed.

“Sorry, it’s not you, it’s just that I tend not to be most guys’ first choice, you know? I’m not skinny enough to be someone's little twink fantasy, and I don’t have enough muscles to be in the running as a top. I’m kinda just in the middle,” he explained, an exasperated laugh accompanying his wide gesture at his body. Bobby’s grin had wilted into a frown of his own, moving in two quick strides to seat himself in John’s lap. The noise John let out was half of surprise at the sudden movement, half in discomfort at the sudden sensation of Bobby’s weight over him. His hands found their way around Bobby’s waist, fingers laced over the base of his spine. Bobby took his face in his hands, pulling John up to meet his eyes. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re hot as hell,” he said, his smile sincere, his voice earnest. John, in lieu of a response, tilted his face up to bring their lips together, grinning against Bobby’s mouth as the other let loose a groan that rattled each of them. Bobby wasn’t a bad kisser, pe se, merely he was enthusiastic to the point of being sloppy. He made short work of bringing his tongue into John’s mouth, swirling it around, darting it in and out as he tugged John’s lower lip between his teeth and ground down. John opened his mouth wide, panting against Bobby as the two of them caught their breath. His hands had moved beneath Bobby's shorts to grasp at him, fingers pressed deep into his flesh. He squeezed once, Bobby giggling at the sensation, grinding their hips together once again, each of them feeling the wave crash over them. He pulled John's hands up and out of his clothes, standing, dragging him to the bed.

Bobby flopped down, John landing heavily on top of him, body between his legs, hands wrapped tightly around his calves. He kissed up the length of Bobby's inner thigh, brushing his face against the bulge in his shorts, moving swiftly to stamp his lips quickly up from his navel to his throat. Bobby encouraged him the whole time with little gasps and moans that seemed to escape with abandon from his throat, his fingers carded tightly in John's hair. John tugged Bobby's shirt over his head, running his palms appreciatively across his muscles, twisting a nipple between his fingers just to watch his face melt again. Bobby pawed at the hem of John's hoodie, and he stood to pull it off, almost getting caught. Bobby sat up to watch his body as it revealed itself, the heel of his palm grinding into himself, his eyes wide.

"Fuck. You look good."

John eyed him, hoping the incredulity in his mind wouldn't show too hard on his face.

"Are you for real? You think I'm hot? When you look like that?"

Bobby flattened his palm, stroking up the length of his stomach, bringing it up his face and through his hair, grinning all the while.

"I dunno. Can't we both be hot? Is that illegal?"

He didn't give John time to respond, surging forwards onto his knees in front of him. He mouthed at John's groin through his sweats, the heat of his breath penetrating the layers of fabric, seeping into his already-flushed skin. 

"Let's see what you were hiding from me, huh?"

Internally, John's voice rang through his own mind.

_Don't get your hopes up._

Undeterred, Bobby yanked everything down at once, holding John steady with a grip on his thigh as he stepped out of his sweatpants and underwear, kicking them to where his hoodie lay. Bobby was still in his shorts, carpet digging into his bare knees. He took John in his hand, a tentative squeeze and a thumb across the head almost enough to take him to the edge, at that point. Bobby looked up at him, that ten thousand watt smile almost blinding him as he brought the tip of his tongue to glance against John. 

"You're definitely gonna take this the wrong way, but I was actually kind of nervous that you were gonna have some monster dick under there."

John snorted, noting the absence of the wave of anxious nausea which normally confronted him whenever another man was between his legs.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"No, no!" Bobby said, grin widening as he ran his hand up and down John's length, "This is the perfect size. Tell you the truth, I'm not a fan of big ones. 'S too much work."

John met his smile with one of his own, but inside he was still reticent to believe Bobby. The little demon voice in his mind screeched at him that he was merely being polite, that Bobby in fact was just riding this out until he could get John to finish so he could shoo him out of his house and replace him with someone more suited to the job. That train of thought was interrupted when Bobby took him into his mouth, swallowing his whole length in one go, his eyes on John's the entire time. He pulled off, a trail of saliva linking his bottom lip and the head of John's cock, now glistening in the soft light from the lamp in the corner of the room.

"See? Perfect size."

John choked out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, which Bobby interpreted as a sign to continue. He alternated between taking John deep, squeezing the head against the roof of his mouth with the back of his tongue, and running the tip up and down the sides of it as his fingers tugged at John's balls. His mouth was hot, the melding heat blurring the boundaries between their bodies. Bobby seemed to be enjoying himself too, as the humming in his chest reverberated through John, sending goosebumps up and down his arms. After what was an embarrassingly short amount of time, John pulled him off, palm pressed to Bobby's forehead to keep him away. He looked up at him again, face caught between confusion and a disappointed pout that John could have kissed off of his mouth.

"Get up on the bed."

He wasn't sure exactly where that voice had come from but it didn't seem to matter to Bobby, whose mouth shut abruptly at the sound of the gravel in John's throat, scrambling up to kneel on the bed, glancing over his shoulder at John, who smirked at him.

"Tell me, was that picture in the jock from tonight, or do you keep it in reserve?"

Bobby chuckled.

"It's a reserve, of course. But, I am wearing one now. Different color, same brand."

"Oh wow."

"It was a multipack. I got them from China."

"You're real resourceful, huh?"

Bobby winked at him, bringing himself to lay with his ass in the air, his head and shoulders pressed into the mattress. John hooked his fingers into the waistband of Bobby's shorts, thumbing them down slowly to reveal him. It took a lot out of him not to gasp. 

"Do you shave down here?"

Bobby shook his head, which had the dual effect of swaying his hips gently from side to side, John's eyes tracking the movement like a mesmerized snake.

"I'm not really hairy at all, other than my head. If you get close though you'll see there's a little there," he added, a wink in his voice.

John knelt before him, bringing his lips to Bobby's cheek, nuzzling his stubble up against the soft skin.

"You ever have your ass eaten before?"

"No," Bobby replied, his quiet voice trembling slightly in excitement, "But I really wanna try it."

John decided in that moment that even if he might turn out to be a mediocre lay, he was definitely going to give Bobby something to remember him by. He brought his hands to either side of Bobby's ass, pulling everything apart slightly so he was spread wide. He began slowly, running his tongue in wide circles around Bobby's entrance, taking in the taste of him — just-clean skin, with the sour tang of sweat beginning to form. As Bobby got used to the new sensations, his face buried in a pillow to spare his neighbors, John began to go harder, jabbing into him with his tongue, the knuckles of his fist pressing into him just beyond the pouch of Bobby's jockstrap. Bobby grabbed at his head, pulling him off, urging him up the bed to lie beside him. They caught their breath for a moment, heaving panting breaths at each other's sides, Bobby's hand coming to rest on John's stomach, circling his fingernails in the dark hair there.

"Sorry. That was too good. I almost came then and there."

"How was it for your first time?"

"I feel like I've been missing out, that was amazing."

John laughed, bringing their faces again to kiss him. It was sweeter that time, softer, less desperate. His hand sat warm against Bobby's cheek, a grip on his jaw to hold him in place, Bobby's own hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. Bobby pulled off eventually, looking John in the eye.

"Fuck me. Please."

John nodded, pushing Bobby onto his back, laying over him once again.

"Do you need me to get you ready?"

"I should be okay, just go slowly."

"You got condoms?"

Bobby reddened, his face caught in a moment of realization.

"Shit. I forgot. We can just do it r-"

John cut him off, standing and making his way to his hoodie, where he had stashed one, just in case.

"We're not 'just doing it raw', you little pervert," he said, chuckling at Bobby's embarrassment, rolling the latex over himself, reaching for the blue-capped bottle that Bobby handed him from somewhere within the tangled sheets.

"Sorry. I really did forget. I meant to get some yesterday."

"It's fine. I'm not insinuating that you're a slut or anything — not that that's a bad thing — but, you know, safety first. I'm already a smoker, I don't need herpes too."

"I don't have herpes!"

"It's just an expression. Put that pillow under your back and hook your arm under your knee," he directed, voice strangely authoritative despite his nerves. It seemed to work for Bobby, at any rate, whose eyes went glassy at the sound of John's words, silently doing as he asked. John lined himself up, rubbing the length of himself back and forth along Bobby, pressing lightly against his entrance whenever he passed. He brought his gaze up to Bobby's, speaking quietly, his fingers tender across Bobby's hip.

"I'm gonna start, alright? Lemme know if it hurts, or if you need me to stop or anything."

Bobby smiled at him, wide and encouraging, and nodded. 

He took a deep breath, beginning the slow push into Bobby. There was a moment of discomfort at the start, Bobby almost too tight. He heard Bobby's breath hissing in pain as he pushed through, pausing there to give him a moment to get used to it, pressing kisses once more to his inner thigh as he waited it out. Eventually, Bobby heaved a shuddered breath and nodded, urging him on. They continued to take it slow, although the difficult part was over, and soon John had bottomed out inside of him. He gave him another minute, Bobby shifting himself back onto the pillow beneath him, fixing the angle. John brought his upper body down to lie against Bobby's, his chin resting across the plane of his chest, their eyes easy.

"You can start moving if you want."

John nodded, lurching forwards to bring their mouths together as his hips started working. His lips and tongue stifled Bobby's moans as they grew in intensity, his thick legs wrapping around John's waist to keep them together. John kept his own hands flat on Bobby's thighs, hooked around the front of his bent hips to keep him close. Even through the dulling sensation of the latex, Bobby was blazing hot inside, and he seemed to be doing something with his muscles to squeeze John whenever he pushed in. Whatever it was, it was working, John quickly losing himself to the sensation. He brought a hand to grope at Bobby through the front of his jockstrap, making to pull out his own length and jerk him along as he moved, but was stopped by Bobby's hand on his wrist, his mouth pulling off to speak roughly to his ear.

"Leave it in there. I wanna try get off without my hand."

His voice was breathless with desire, thick and syrupy in John's ear. John nodded against him, the notion that Bobby wanted him alone to be the one to take him there sending an electric current through his whole body. He pulled out, Bobby groaning disappointedly, confusion on his face.

"Get on your stomach," John said, his own voice breathless — more from the exertion than anything else. Bobby nodded and moved, lying out fully along the length of his bed. John laid on top of him, inserting himself once more, their bodies in contact along their entire lengths. Something about the angle must have been different, better, because Bobby began to cry out in earnest then, fingers knotted in John's hair, pressing his lips to the back of his neck. John's eye caught the mirror by Bobby's wall — unmounted, as seemed to be the norm for people their age — their bodies on full display in the reflection. He watched it for a moment in silence, quietly in shock at how perfect Bobby looked beneath him. He brought a hand to Bobby's throat, angling his chin up and to the side, his mouth at his ear.

"Look, in the mirror, can you see yourself?"

Bobby's eyes opened, taking in the sight of the two of them, his face left open in awestruck arousal. He groaned again, a deep, keening sound, and thrust his tongue once more into John's mouth.

"Please don't stop, I'm so close. Please."

John pushed him down into the mattress again, supporting himself on his arm, his hand rough on the back of Bobby's neck, holding him such that he was staring the whole time into the mirror. He picked up the pace, finding reserves of energy inside of himself that he didn't know were possible. Soon enough, Bobby — having had his crotch ground into the mattress the entire time, the friction enough to replace the motions of his hand — let loose an almighty sound from deep in his throat, his body shaking beneath John as he finished. John slowed, watching Bobby as he shook, gently continuing his strokes inside to ride out the waves of pleasure just that little bit longer for him. Soon enough however, Bobby began to paw at John's hips, his face wincing in pain.

"Sorry, it's a little too much, can we stop?"

John nodded, pulling out as gently as possible, Bobby grunting one final time as he was suddenly left empty. He rolled onto his back, crawling up the bed to prop himself up against the headboard. John kneeled across from him as he removed the condom, watching Bobby peel off his jockstrap, glancing at the pouch.

"Damn, this thing is destroyed."

John only nodded, still catching his breath. Bobby grinned at him, gesturing with a flick of his fingers for John to come between his legs once more. As John crawled over, preparing to settle against him, Bobby shook his head. 

"Sit with your back to me, let me take care of you."

John nodded, doing as he said, enjoying the warm sensation of Bobby's chest against his shoulders. He slumped in between his legs, Bobby kissing up the length of his neck, John laughing softly at the ticklish sensation. 

"Can you use the stuff from the bottle if you're gonna jerk me off?" he asked, nodding at it where it sat inconspicuously amongst the sheets once again. Bobby shook his head against him, his voice low in John's ear.

"You're not gonna need it."

John was about to ask him why when he felt his length enveloped in slightly cool wetness, the feeling of soft cotton against him. He looked down, eyes widening in shock at the sight of Bobby's jockstrap fisted tightly in his hand around him. He shook his head in disbelief, leaning back with a shudder as Bobby began to work him over.

"You're insane."

"In a good way?"

"Yes."

Bobby smiled against him, kissing a line from his ear to his jaw as he brought John quickly to the point of no return. He finished quickly, his and Bobby's loads mixing together in the now-soaked confines of the pouch. He slumped, exhausted, against Bobby, and laughed, a weak sound that seemed almost involuntary at that point. Bobby held him, arms around his waist, face settled into his hair, as they both breathed to calm once more.

"That was amazing."

"Hell yeah it was. Jesus Christ, I've never come without my hand like that, that was something else."

"That was so fucking hot. And the mirror!"

"The mirror!" Bobby echoed, his voice rising with excitement, "I've never fucked anyone in here before, I didn't know about that."

They were quiet then, Bobby running his fingers in gentle circles along John's stomach. He had cuddled with only very few partners before, opting usually instead to shoot off at the first available moment. It was nice, however, to sit with Bobby, feeling the warmth between them as their heart rates continued to pound. He could feel himself falling asleep, jerked suddenly out of it by the sound of a phone ringing. Abruptly he was terrified that he had missed his curfew somehow, that he had lost far more time than he thought to Bobby. His fears abated when Bobby reached for his own phone, answering it, his voice low.

"What's up, are you done at Jake's?"

There was another voice on the other side, higher pitched.

"Okay, I'll leave in a few."

Another pause.

"Okay, whatever, yeah. Bye."

He felt Bobby sigh as he hung up, felt him push gently against John, the two of them moving to stand. Bobby stood close, arms dangling loosely around John's hips, a kiss to his cheek.

"That was my little brother. I have to pick him up from his friend's house. I'm sorry."

John shook his head.

"It's fine. I gotta be home soon anyway."

Bobby nodded, the two of them quietly getting dressed.

Bobby walked down with him, leaning against his car as John got on his bike once more, the two of them standing briefly in the light of his porch.

"If you ever wanna do stuff again just hit me up on the app, alright? Maybe we can make this into a regular thing."

"Sounds good to me. See you round Bobby."

Bobby waved him off, John pedalling off into the night, heading for the gas station to pick up his and his aunt's smokes.

* * *

It was just past eleven thirty when he arrived home, pushing his bike into the hallway where it rested precariously against the wall. He stole into the living room, where his aunt still sat, her wine glass replaced by a mug of tea, still steaming slightly. She looked up as he came in, smiling warmly.

"Hey, sorry I'm a little late," he said sheepishly, "Daniel was on his smoke break when I got there, I had to wait for him to finish before I could check out."

"That's alright, I'm not gonna chew you out for being five minutes late. Did you enjoy your ride?"

He cursed her silently for her choice of words, but nodded all the same.

"It was good. Tiring. Which is what I needed, I guess," he said with a nervous laugh, the situation suddenly uncomfortable. He passed her her smokes, a kiss to her cheek as he moved off to his room once again. 

He stripped off, throwing everything into his hamper to hopefully get the smell of sex off of them, settling under the covers, his phone in hand. He made to text Bobby, thanking him, maybe even to arrange another meet, but was disappointed to see that their thread had disappeared — the app's way of letting you know that you had been blocked. He locked his phone with a sigh, the anxious pit in his stomach writhing like so many coiled snakes, rolling onto his back to stare morosely at the ceiling. 

It didn't matter, he supposed. 

One night was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you hope you win.


	2. Warm

Bobby never did reappear on the app grid, solidifying in John's mind the fact that he had been unceremoniously blocked after their night together. 

It didn't weigh on him as much as he might have expected — aside from a few hours of gloom the next morning as the memory of what they had done had raced through his mind. Self-loathing notwithstanding, he had never been able to pinpoint exactly what it had been that would have led to Bobby losing interest all of a sudden, especially considering how enthusiastic he had been, how willing to hold John afterwards, how excited he had seemed at the prospect of them figuring out some kind of regular routine. Perhaps it had all just been an elaborate ruse, put together to get John out of there with as little trouble as possible. 

He wouldn't ever find out, that was for sure, and so he hadn't let it bother him.

Rather, he had found that the memory of their encounter made for great fodder on lonely evenings, when he couldn't muster up the wherewithal to brave the grid of bodies to find somewhere to lay his head for an hour or so. Yet, as the school year had finished and he found himself suddenly bereft of things to do, he had ultimately decided to fill his empty summer afternoons with the sounds and sensations of others, whittling away the heat in apartments and bedrooms dotted around his area. He wasn't going crazy, he assured himself, he was merely exploring his options while he still had time. In truth, he mostly bounced between a series of regulars — only a few of whom whose names he could remember on a given day — preferring to stick to what, and who, he knew. 

It was one such summer day — his bedroom window thrown wide to invite even the possibility of a breeze to waft through — that he found himself staring out at the unblinking blue sky, willing himself to rise and continue work on the essay he was supposed to be writing. It had been suggested heavily by his English teacher that he should pursue his writing more seriously, that he had potential within him which risked being eroded by the drudgery of the particularly insipid genre of work required from high school writing assignments. Instead, she had urged him to read more widely — something he had already been doing, since a young age — and to attempt to hone himself and his skills to the levels he saw in others, if not beyond. It was slow going, but it was going.

He had dragged his computer chair over to the window, gazing out onto the street below, watching the asphalt of the road slowly bake itself liquid again under the unrelenting sun. There was no one out — the neighborhood children all seemingly packed off to various summer camps, their parents safely inside indulging in their air conditioning — the street eerily quiet despite the glorious weather. There was the hum of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance, the one indication that John hadn't been the only one left behind in some kind of Rapture situation. In his pocket, his phone vibrated with a text, jolting him out of himself. He glanced at the screen —  _ Jean: 1 unread message  _ — and unlocked it.

_ Can I call? _

He sighed as if it were at all an imposition to hear his friend's voice, as if there was even anyone to  _ hear  _ his sigh in the first place, but responded to her in the affirmative. Soon enough, the phone began to ring in earnest.

"What's up?"

_ "Hi, sorry, I'm driving, otherwise I would have just texted like a normal person." _

"You're not supposed to call while you're driving either, Jean."

_ "What are you, a cop? I'm on hands free." _

"That's good, you'll have both hands available to flail in panic when that eighteen-wheeler plows into you cuz you didn't stop at the stop sign."

_ "You're so fucking morbid." _

"Thank you, I try."

_ "  _ Anyway,  _ get yourself a pair of shorts, we're going to the pool." _

John groaned internally. He had managed to avoid the local swimming pool for the entirety of the summer up to this point, unwilling to reveal his pasty, uneven form to the unsuspecting masses who sought only to enjoy a nice day out in the sun — not to be confronted by a creature straight out of HP Lovecraft's imagination.

"I can't. I'm sick," he replied, half-heartedly coughing down the line. He could hear Jean's eyes roll.

_ "Shut up. I'm two blocks from your street, get your shit together and be down here. Ororo hasn't seen you in like a million years." _

The third of John's meagre friend group, Ororo, had gotten herself a job lifeguarding at the pool over the summer. She claimed to enjoy it, but Jean had spilled to John that it seemed like she was more concerned with checking out guys than with stopping children from drowning. Somehow, he hadn't been able to find fault with her logic. He sighed, sending his computer chair wheeling off back to it's spot at his desk with a swift kick, shuffling over to his closet. He rooted out a pair of shorts which had been bought two years previous when he very suddenly got into the idea of going regularly to the pool to swim laps and get his body in shape. It had lasted all of about a month, but the shorts remained. Rummaging further through his drawers, he unearthed a loose black t-shirt out of which he had cut the sleeves, shucking it into his bag. From outside, he heard the sound of a car pulling up, his aunt's voice calling to him from the living room.

"John! Jean's here!"

"I'll be down now!" he yelled back, eyes darting around his room to confirm he had all of his crap in order before he made his way downstairs, to where Jean was already inside, chatting with his aunt. Quietly, he wondered how she had managed to get past her father with shorts as short as the ones she was wearing, but he didn't bother asking. She had her ways.

"You two have fun, and  _ please  _ put some damn sunscreen on. The two of you are so pale you're going to look like lobsters straight out of the pot."

Jean laughed, waving John's aunt off.

"I've got it in the car, don't worry!"

They paused then as John came close, Jean’s eyes looking him up and down once, taking in his dark hoodie, under which he could already feel sweat begin to drip down his back.

"I hope you're not wearing that out, you're gonna die of heatstroke before we even get to the water."

"It's fine, I've got a shirt in here."

She shrugged, parting with a hug to John's aunt.

"I'll go start the car, it takes a while to get going sometimes!" she said, a little sheepishly.

They watched her as she left, his aunt returning his gaze easily as the sound of Jean's car's troubled engine echoed through the empty street.

"We're just going to the pool for a bit. I dunno if we're doing anything after, maybe we might get food with Ororo once her shift is over. I'll text you if we are, or if I'm gonna be home late, alright?"

"All good, all good. Have fun, and please for the love of God take that hoodie off before you leave. You look like such a stereotype. You're not Christian Slater."

He rolled his eyes, shucking it off, hanging it by the hood on the bannister of the stairs, gesturing with his arms spread wide, his fading band t-shirt decidedly unimpressive to his aunt's eyes.

"Better?"

"Maybe. Go get a tan, I'll see you later."

He kissed her cheek, jogging out to meet Jean in her car, which had apparently started with no serious issues. The two set off, rumbling down the street, the pool about a half hour's drive from John's place.

* * *

The place was crowded when they arrived.

It was late afternoon, the heat still oppressive, the majority of the patrons splashing about in the shallows, conveniently shaded by a grove of trees just past the chain link fence that separated the pool from the outside world. 

John and Jean changed quickly, briefly separating, emerging once more out into the harsh light in their swimming clothes. Jean took in his shirt, his pale limbs jutting out of it, the black of the material highlighting their almost-reflective tone.

"Why are you wearing a shirt?"

He shrugged.

"Body-image issues engendered from a lifetime of consuming mass media?"

She blinked at him twice.

"Take it off."

"I don't wanna."

"I'm going to pull it over your head myself."

He groaned, leaving her once more as he returned the shirt to his locker in the changing rooms, returning bare-chested.

"Can we go get in the water now so I can hide?"

"No," she replied, pointing over to the lifeguard post, where Ororo sat, observing the poolside with a bored look on her face, "We're going to go say hi."

They strolled over to the stand, dodging around screeching children who darted in between legs like so many tiny dogs, ever on the verge of planting face-first into the concrete of the pool’s edge. Ororo didn’t notice them immediately, her eyes cautiously watching a group of teenage boys who looked as though they were about to start causing some variety of trouble. Her whistle sat between her lips, poised to ring shrilly through the air at her command. She was surely visible to them — to everyone at the pool — as her dark skin practically glowed in the day’s ample sunlight. Her outfit was decidedly less scandalous than John had imagined — a simple white t-shirt with Lifeguard emblazoned in red letters across her chest, and a pair of red shorts. He had pictured some kind of Baywatch scenario, a high cut one-piece, maybe even a pair of impractical strappy sandals. Satisfied that the boys weren’t going to do anything astronomically stupid for the time being, she turned her attention down to John and Jean.

“What’s up, losers?”

“Not a whole lot, which is why we’re wasting time down here,” John replied.

“Oh wow, and here’s me thinking you were finally coming to see your friend!”

“Alright, maybe that too,” he relented, the two of them relaxing into easy grins. “How’s trade today? Any falls? Any fights? Anyone drown?”

“No — on all accounts — unfortunately. I’m bored as shit, to tell you the truth.”

“Are you here alone?” Jean asked, glancing across the pool to the other lifeguard stand, which was empty. Ororo shook her head.

“Bobby’s on his break, we’ve been going back and forth on the walkie talkies about cute guys. We have a game where we try and guess if they’re gay or straight or whatever. He’s winning.”

Jean nodded along, the two of them chattering ahead with the conversation, John unable to hear any of their words over the pounding of his heart. It had to be the Bobby he knew. The odds of there being two gays in the area, both named Bobby, both of the age to be willing to work a summer job as a lifeguard, were simply too high for it to be another person. Not to mention, he surely would have seen the hypothetical other Bobby on the apps in some capacity. Eventually, his friends noticed that he had spaced out, Jean waving her hand in front of his face.

“Earth to John, do you read me?”

He shook himself out of his haze, blinking back to them.

“Sorry, I went to Mars there for a second. I think the heat might be getting to me a little. I’m gonna go get in the water for a bit.”

They waved him off, sharing a momentary glance of concern behind his back as he traipsed off. He made his way to the pool’s edge, having found a section in the deep end that was marginally less crowded than the others. He lowered himself in slowly, body recoiling in sudden shock at the sharp cool of the water, his flushed, overheated skin especially sensitive to it. He took a deep breath, shunting his top half under the water all at once, his muscles clenching as his head went under. He stayed there for a moment as his body relaxed, pushing up above the waterline, shaking droplets out of his hair, slicking it back out of his eyes. He hooked his elbows up on the pool’s edge, kicking his legs lightly to tread water, his eyes scanning across the pool, partially to take in the sights of the various people and their goings-on, partially to keep an eye out for Bobby’s reappearance. Jean and Ororo finished up, Jean throwing her eyes over the mass of bodies to seek him out. He raised his hand to call her over, watching her maneuver herself around the crowd as she made her way.

Reaching him finally, she knelt by his arm, leaning over him, her bright red hair — even more vibrant in the sun — dangling town to brush the bridge of his nose. He suppressed a ticklish twitch in his face, fixing her with an expectant gaze.

“You’re not yourself today. What’s going on?”

Jean wasn’t known to be someone who beat around the bush, when it came to confronting things that most others would rather leave unspoken. John gestured for her to get in the water with him, turning himself around, placing his back to the mass of potential eavesdroppers. She swung her legs around, dipping them in the water, hands in her lap. She watched him again, her expression soft.

“Talk to me, please.”

“Not until you get all the way in,” he replied, tugging at her knee with his hand. She kicked out at him lightly, splashing them both with the frigid water.

“I don’t wanna, it’s too cold.”

“Then I’m not telling you.”

She sighed, hoisting herself up on her arms to slowly lower herself in. He waited until she was halfway through her movement to speak.

“I fucked Ororo’s coworker.”

Her eyes darted to him, her arms going limp, dunking her unceremoniously beneath the surface, her surprised shout rising as a series of bubbles that angrily breached the surface. He wasn’t sure if her gasp he had heard was out of surprise at what he had said, or from the sudden cold of the water around her head. He watched her push up, flipping her hair back in a display far more majestic than his own had been. She swiped water roughly out of her eyes, fixing him with a glare.

“Elaborate.”

John sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

“I was online one night back in April. He messaged me. He lived nearby. I went over. We had sex.”

“April…” she intoned, her eyes staring off into the trees, the whirring of her mind almost audible. Eventually she turned to him again, realization plastered across her face. “He’s the guy who blocked you right after, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Although, I never did know if he blocked me. Like, the app glitches sometimes, and blocks people without you even doing anything. Or maybe he had another guy that he was regular with and the dude asked him to go out with him for real. I dunno, could be anything.”

“So why’d you look all weird when Ororo said his name?”

He grimaced.

“I dunno. I guess it’s awkward, if it  _ was  _ him and he didn't want to see me again.”

“Well why don’t you go talk to him when he comes back? Maybe he can explain himself.”

“Jean, are you crazy?” he asked, incredulous, “I don’t care why he blocked me, or even  _ if  _ he blocked me. It was a hookup, it wasn’t that serious.”

She ran a hand through her sopping hair, nails dragging tracks through it, shaking off droplets onto the dry concrete around them, quickly drying in the sun. She shrugged at him, her face impassive.

"Look, I know you boys are a little more…  _ carefree  _ with your romantic shit — or lack thereof — but if it  _ was  _ a misunderstanding, you both could be missing out on what I believe you told me was great sex, all because you're too stubborn to go talk to him and figure it out."

John pushed himself down beneath the water where her voice reached him only vaguely — a booming, yet muffled, vibration in his ears — staring at her all the while. She waited several seconds for his breath to run out, and then several more for him to give in to the burning in his chest before he breached the surface once more, taking in a deep, gasping breath before attempting to plunge beneath again. She hooked a hand under his armpit, hauling him up to the surface, where he remained, a slight pout dragging the sides of his mouth down.

"It  _ was  _ pretty good sex…" he said in concession, drawing circles in the water pooling in the concrete.

"Well, looks like you won't even have to go looking for him," Jean said, a smirk carrying along her words. John turned, following the line of her gaze to Ororo's seat, across the pool, where Bobby — indeed, John's Bobby — stood, gazing up at her, the two evidently talking. She pointed at John and Jean, Bobby's head following her direction, John swiftly turning around to avoid detection.

"What the fuck is happening?" he said, his voice an exasperated whisper.

"He's coming over here. Ororo said she was gonna introduce him to us."

"When the fuck did she say that?"

"After you left to go sulk over here, dumbass."

John pushed himself under again, submerging himself up to his nose in the water. He mumbled out a reply, the bubbles sadly breaking the surface shortly after.

"You better perk up, because he's almost here."

She watched his eyes dart to Bobby, who had almost reached them, throwing a furtive wave at Jean, still not having recognized John, by the looks of things. John pushed himself back up to sit on the edge, his legs swirling in the water, and waited for his stomach to tighten around itself. He saw the look of recognition pass across Bobby's face, his eyes momentarily widening. He didn't break his stride, however, and came to a stop, crouching on his haunches. John, if he had lowered his gaze slightly, could probably have seen up the leg of his shorts — bright red, possibly the same ones from their night together.

"What's up guys, you're Ororo's friends, right?"

"Yep! And you're Bobby?"

"The one and only," he replied, thumb pointing at his chest. John chuckled, seemingly involuntarily, Bobby shooting him a quick glance. "So, who's John and who's Jean?"

Jean rolled her eyes, laughing, her smile wide — more than likely cackling internally at how uncomfortable she knew the two boys were in that moment.

"So, Bobby, do you know Ororo just from here or what?"

"Yeah, yeah, we started working here at the same time back in June. She talks about you guys all the time!"

Silence settled around them then, the sudden awareness that John hadn't said a word the entire time, too busy hunching into himself, eyes fixed on the tiny lapping waves at the pool's edge. Bobby glanced at him, looking away sheepishly as Jean caught his eye.

"Alright, I'm gonna go do a lap — maybe two — can you two figure out your business before I get back please?"

John's gaze could have turned her to stone, but she met it easily, laughing softly at their childishness. She kicked off, disappearing into the waves she created, leaving the two of them alone.

"I hate her so much."

Bobby barked a laugh, shifting to sit, his feet dangling just above the water, so as not to get his shoes wet.

"So, did you block me or did I block you? Because I remember coming home with my little punk of a brother and going to text you, and all of a sudden I can't see our thread anymore."

His voice was easy, but John could detect a bitter note in his tone. He nudged Bobby's shoulder, urging him to meet John's eyes, the two of them grinning furtively.

"Same here," he shrugged, "I stopped to buy smokes and by the time I got home the thread was gone."

Bobby swallowed, John watching the tendons in his neck as they worked. The sun was kind to Bobby, lightening his hair to an almost-golden hue, bringing out the vibrancy in his eyes. He smelled like chlorine, like sun-baked skin just beginning to tan. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"I got a little worried that you might have been all fucked up about it. I remembered you told me about… you know, being insecure about your body and stuff… and I figured maybe you might have thought I didn't like you, that I didn't have fun."

"I did think that, for a couple hours after. But I got over it. It wasn't that serious. I figured it was probably just an app glitch, that you hadn't meant anything by it."

"Yeah… I thought as well I might have gone a bit overboard, with the stuff at the end. I dunno. I just felt weird about the whole thing."

His stared at his feet, his face having fallen into a frown, his brow furrowed. John sighed, glancing around them to make sure they weren't being observed, and kissed his cheek, a brief press of lips, a glancing sensation of warmth. He pulled off with a soft sound, glancing against Bobby's skin as he spoke.

"No hard feelings?" he whispered.

Bobby giggled, moving to stand, adjusting himself in his shorts.

"Oh there's definitely hard feelings alright. But no, we're good. Sorry about all of that though. We could have been having sex this whole time!"

John groaned.

"I know! I'm so mad. Stupid fucking app."

"It's total garbage. Gimme your phone number, or I'll get it off Ororo or something, we can text normally then."

"We'll figure it out later."

Bobby nodded, checking the time on the large clock which hung over the shallow end.

"My break's over. I'm gonna head back. Ororo said something about maybe seeing if you guys wanted to eat with us after our shifts are done? You up for it?"

"We'll see," he said, throwing Bobby a wink — a move entirely uncharacteristic for him, yet which felt oddly natural. Bobby went red, snorting in laughter as he moved off with a wave. Jean reappeared shortly after — almost as if she had timed her return with Bobby's departure — sidling up to John, slightly out of breath. She didn't even give him a second to arrange his thoughts before she pounced.

"Spill it, are we gonna have to have him whacked, yes or no?"

John rolled his eyes.

"It was a misunderstanding. We're all good. He's gonna get my number at some point and we're gonna go from there."

She nodded, lips lengthening into a grin which could only be described as shit-eating. John glared at her.

"Don't you fucking say it."

"I told you so."

"I'm gonna put you under," he said, reaching suddenly over to dunk her by her shoulders under the water. They were interrupted in their tussle by the shrill tone of a whistle, heads snapping over to Bobby who now sat on the opposite lifeguard chair, wagging his finger at them in admonishment, smile wide on his face, visible even from across the water. John relinquished hold of her, letting her throw her hair back, catching him with the spray of droplets right in the eyes.

"Look at that, you got us in trouble with your boyfriend already."

"Oh, he's definitely not my boyfriend, Jean. C'mon, you gotta know that by now, it doesn't work like that with gays."

She rolled her eyes, stamping her palm to her ear to get the water out.

"Yeah yeah, I know, it's all just anon tops and pig bottoms or whatever you said. You just watch — one of you is gonna catch feelings and it's all gonna be messy as hell."

"Listen, if you knew what he was like in bed, you'd take your chances too."

She raised her eyebrows, surprised at John's sudden candour with his sex life, which had to that point largely kept private.

"That good, huh?"

He nodded, eyes wide.

"Didn't you see the size of his ass?"

"I did, actually. It's hard to miss." 

"Yeah well let's say I got the grand tour of that."

"That's disgusting."

He threw his palms to the sky, face nonchalant, the two of them moving off for another lap around the pool.

* * *

"So," Ororo asked, swallowing a mouthful of her burger, "How  _ did  _ you two meet?"

After the pool — John and Jean pleasantly lethargic from their swimming, Bobby and Ororo decidedly more downtrodden and weary after a long day in the sun spent watching over children who seemed determined to annihilate themselves on the concrete — the four had gone for food, their growling stomachs having answered the question of where to occupy themselves next. 

John sighed at Ororo's question, shaking his head.

"You know damn well how and where we met, Ororo."

Bobby laughed, tossing the last of his fries into his mouth, the rest of his meal finished far sooner than anybody else's — confirming John's suspicions that he did in fact eat like a pig.

"Unless you want the full details, but I don't know about all of that while you guys are still eating."

"I second that," Jean replied, grimacing at her burger. 

Ororo went on, wiping a nonexistent drop of grease from her face.

"But, like, is it really  _ that  _ simple? You just log on, and someone's there and you're like 'ooh he's cute lemme get some of that', and that's it?"

Her gaze shifted between Bobby's beside her and John's just opposite him, her face openly confused at the deceptively simple mechanics of gay hookup culture.

"Pretty much," Bobby said, moving to stretch, the hem of his polo shirt pulling up to reveal his stomach, which John pointedly ignored. 

"It's just sex, it's not like we went on a date or anything," John added with a noncommittal shrug. Bobby snapped back out of his deep stretch, hand on his heart, face aghast.

"You mean you didn't feel that same spark that I did when I saw you pulling up on your bike looking like the kid who deals weed to my brother? I'm offended!"

John rolled his eyes, Bobby leaning in, eyes serious, voice low.

"Actually, can I ask —  _ are  _ you the guy who deals weed to my brother?"

"No."

"Ugh," he sighed, "I suppose I'll just have to keep stealing it from him then."

Ororo and John exchanged a glance, each silently asking the other if they should reveal to Bobby where exactly he could get weed from if he wanted. John shook his head minutely, Ororo nodding in understanding. 

They descended into more regular chatter after that — discussing movies they had seen, John talking briefly about his latest writing endeavour which Bobby seemed to take particular interest in hearing. As their conversation wore on, John began to feel the sensation of Bobby's leg pressed against his own. At first he had put it up to chance, to the limited space for the four of them beneath the table, and so had shifted politely out of his way. It was only when Bobby's leg returned, more insistently, coupled with a meaningful glance in John's direction and a brief smile, that he understood. He chuckled to himself, knocking their knees together lightly. 

Soon enough, Ororo's phone rang, her pop-song ringtone blasting through the diner at an ungodly volume, disturbing just about everyone in a several-mile radius. Silencing Beyoncé — an act not taken lightly — she picked up, the deep voice of her father audible even through the receiver.

"Hi, are you outside?" she asked, twisting in her seat to peer out at the parking lot, where his car sat. The rest of the group looked out for him, his hulking form squashed into his tiny sedan. He waved at them all cordially, a smile on his face. She turned back to them.

"He says hi. Yeah, yeah, okay, I'll be out now. Okay see you."

"Leaving so soon?" Jean asked, an exaggerated pout aimed in Ororo's direction. She shrugged in response.

"It's Thursday, we always go grocery shopping on Thursdays. Besides, I haven't seen him all week — he leaves for work before I'm awake and he's always in his room half asleep before I come home."

Ororo left them, promising Jean to send her her portion of the bill once she got home. The rest of them finished up, calling for the check, glancing at phones which had been left miraculously untouched during the whole meal, a feat especially for John, who was prone to compulsively unlocking his screen whenever a pause in conversation lasted for longer than two seconds. Jean scrolled through her messages, clearly reading something she didn't want to see.

"You alright?" Bobby asked, noting her dour expression.

"I'm fine, I just have to pick up my stupid mom from her hair appointment. My dad totally forgot about it and he's in the city doing something."

"Oh god, I hate riding in the car with your mom. She always grabs the handle thing above the window whenever you go over thirty miles an hour — it stresses me out."

Bobby, to John's amusement, wasted no time in jumping in.

"I can drive you home. We both know you're not far from my place!"

John shrugged, conscious of Jean's eyes darting between them as she rattled off a text to her mother, but making it a point to ignore her. 

"That works for me. Are we good to go?"

They parted ways with Jean, watching her rumble off in her tin can, in the direction of her nervously disposed mother. Bobby couldn't keep the grin off of his face as he and John slid into his car, the oppressive heat quickly blasted away by his impressive air conditioning. They sat for a moment, luxuriating in the cool, Bobby's hand on John's upper thigh. He squeezed once, turning to kiss his cheek, another light press, the perfect echo of what had happened in the pool. 

"Do you want me to take you straight home?" he asked, lips to John's ear. John tilted his head, expression betraying nothing.

"You got somewhere else in mind?"

"I know a spot down near the woods by my school where we could park for a little while and not be disturbed?"

"Oh," John replied, eyebrow raised, "And what are we gonna do there?"

Bobby rolled his eyes at John's intimations, clearly unimpressed.

"Little late for being coy after we've already done what we've done, don't you think?"

John pulled away from him, settling into his seat, nodding in acquiescence, palms to the ceiling.

"True, true," he said, dropping his hand to Bobby's thigh, nodding pointedly at the road, "Let's get going."

It didn't take long. Bobby's high school wasn't far from his place in the car, maybe a twenty minute drive as they hit seemingly every single traffic light on the way. It hadn't helped anyone that, at some point, John had begun to stroke his thumb across the inside of Bobby's leg, far too close to the uncomfortable bulging in the front of his shorts. He caught glances at Bobby's face on occasion, his eyes glued to the road, his jaw set in an expression that could have passed for anger were it not for the sound of his breathing and the grin on his face whenever he caught John's eye. At a red light, he leaned suddenly over the armrest, his arm around John's shoulders, pulling their faces together in an open mouth kiss that lasted until the absolute moment that the light turned green. John — head now swimming, face flushed — figured that must have been some kind of payback.

The school, to John's relief, was not the expensive Catholic school which had occupied his worries. Instead, it was another public school, although one which was admittedly slightly better funded than his own, mostly due to the success of the football team. He wondered if Bobby played. As they passed by the playing field, he brought it up.

"Do you play any sports? I know your school's football team is pretty much top of the board every year, are you on it?"

Bobby shook his head.

"Not football, no," he said, swinging the car around a bend a few yards down the road from the school's entrance, "I'm on the swim team, but it's kind of on and off. We're not exactly very good. 'S fun though, lotta cute guys."

"You ever fuck around with any of them?"

"Nah, they're all straight except one, and he's had a boyfriend since like sophomore year."

John was intrigued.

"He came out that early? And it was fine?"

"Yeah, I guess. I dunno, I feel like most of the homophobia you get now just comes from the real assholes. The majority of people don't even care."

"I suppose that's true."

Bobby glanced at him, his eyes worried.

"Do you… uhh, do you get shit for being gay at your school?"

"Oh, no, not really. Like you said, it's mostly just the real assholes. Most people don't say anything weird."

"Right," he replied, not entirely sounding convinced. 

"So," John ventured, willing for anything to take them back to the previous mood, "Do you wear a speedo when you swim?"

Bobby laughed, bringing the car up a wooded lane that was barely paved, emerging out into a clearing, replete with a mouldy old picnic table, well past its prime. John wondered if the area was made specifically for teenage couples to be murdered in, or if it was just a coincidence.

"No," he replied, killing the engine, opening his door and swinging himself out, John following him. "Even better. I wear those swimming tights, you know the ones, come up to about mid-knee?"

John's eyes lit up.

"Oh yes I do indeed. You'll have to show me some time."

Bobby chuckled, shaking his head.

"Whenever you want. C'mon, get in the back."

They slid into the backseat together, Bobby grabbing at John's hips within moments, pulling him over to sit in his lap. They sat for a moment, adjusting themselves until they were comfortable, John's knees clamped around Bobby's waist, arms around his neck. Bobby watched him, eyes sparkling — with mischief, or something else, John couldn't tell — his bright smile practically incandescent when up that close. Bobby brought their mouths together in a firm press of lips, pulling away gently just as quickly.

"I'm really glad we ended up seeing each other again," he said, voice starting off sweet but dipping into something a little darker as his hands moved to grip around what little ass John had in his shorts, "I've been thinking about our night together for weeks."

"So have I," John replied, bringing their foreheads together, breathing across Bobby's lips, "I've been jerking off to the way you looked in that mirror three times a week since it happened." 

Bobby's face lit up, his mouth pulled wide into a smile. 

"Kiss me."

John did, neither of them bothering with the usual furtive niceties, rocketing straight to one-hundred, tongues going back and forth, fingers tight where they gripped one another. John ground his hips down into Bobby's, both of them hard, riding the wave of it as he took Bobby's lip between his teeth and pressed hard. Had Bobby's eyes been open, they probably would have rolled back into his skull, a groan almost rattling the frame of the car around them. He moved to kiss at John's neck, the sensation of his lips thick and warm and wet against John's skin, already humming from the earlier sunlight. He clutched at Bobby's head, fingers raking through his soft hair, and spoke to his ear.

"Are those lifeguard shorts the same ones you wore when we fucked?"

Bobby pulled away from his neck with a wet sound, fixing him with another blinding smile. 

"Why don't you get closer and see for yourself?" 

He brought his hand to the back of John's neck and directed him downwards, the sudden exertion of his strength — the tensing in his forearm, the determined look in his eyes — driving John to the brink. He moved as he was told, stopping only once to rub his face along Bobby's stomach through his thin shirt, kissing at it briefly as his head was brought down in between Bobby's thighs. He felt hot, the heat of Bobby's body concentrated there, the back of his hand urging John to mouth at him, his other reaching up behind his own head, eyes closed. He spoke in a rough whisper, some of his bravado falling away as the sensation of John pressing on him became almost too much.

"What do you think? Same ones?"

"I dunno… I'd have to get a better look. Maybe if you take them off?"

Bobby laughed, seeming more like an expulsion of the tension in his chest, raising his hips off the seat and into John's face, tugging his shorts down to his ankles, leaving him in his underwear — a pair of blue briefs half-soaked already.

"That is… a  _ lot  _ of juice, man."

"Don't call it that, please," he replied, embarrassed.

"I'm not calling it precum, absolutely not. I refuse"

"I don't give a shit what you call it but if you don't do something soon I'm gonna explode. I've been like this since you kissed me at the fucking pool."

John rolled his eyes, grabbing at Bobby's wrist, placing his hand back where it belonged at the nape of his neck, urging him to keep a hold. He pulled the briefs down enough to get everything out, hooking the waistband underneath Bobby's balls, taking in the sight — his first actual sight — of Bobby's cock. 

"I didn't think you'd be uncut, that's kinda new."

Bobby shrugged.

"My parents are technically Catholic."

John hummed, enveloping Bobby in the warmth of his mouth, rewarded by a squeeze to the back of his neck and another loud groan. Bobby, evidently, liked to be loud. He was so far gone by that point that it didn't take John long to take him there, working him with his hand and mouth at the same time, delighting in Bobby's muscles tensing and releasing around him as he went back and forth while approaching the edge. He spoke finally, a choked out whisper, practically pleading.

"Don't stop, please, please."

John ran a hand up his chest, just to feel his heart pulse beneath the muscles, Bobby bringing his own to grip it tightly, kissing his palm. He came with a shout, John doing his best to keep up with the pulsing, his swallowing elongating the aftershocks as Bobby came down. He sat up, grinning, Bobby heaving breaths beside him, raising a palm to clap him on the shoulder.

"Just a sec," he said, breathless, "I'll be right with you."

John laughed, Bobby moving his hand to cup John's cheek, running a thumb along the ridge. He reached down with his other hand, pulling his foot out of his underwear, stretching his legs wide with his back to the car door.

"Come sit in between my legs. And take your shirt off."

John did as he was told, struggling slightly in the cramped confines, moving to lay himself against Bobby, hands along his thighs. Bobby kissed at his neck, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of John's underwear, shunting them down with his shorts around his knees. He took John into his hand, gripping him lightly, thumb swiping across the head. John, although he would never admit to it, enjoyed being bossed around somewhat, and so when Bobby held his palm flat in front of his mouth and asked him to spit into it, he could feel his body inching ever close to the edge of release, without even the sensation of Bobby's grip. Bobby spoke into his ear as he worked him, starting slow.

"So," he asked, voice practically a growl, "Are we gonna make this a regular thing?"

John nodded, too focused on the exquisite slide of Bobby's smooth fingers around him.

"You have to use your words or I'm not gonna finish you off," he replied, stilling his hand, his words sending a ripple up John's spine that the two of them felt.

"Yeah," John said, voice shaky, "We gotta do this more often."

"But not boyfriends, right? I'm not ready for all that yet."

"Me neither. I'm happy just to fuck around."

"But we'll be friends too, right? Cause I had a lot of fun today with you guys and I don't want it to be weird. I want us to do normal stuff too."

John laughed, a frantic noise.

"This isn't normal?"

Bobby didn't respond, biting John lightly on the shoulder as he began to move faster, his teeth grinding harder as John's moans increased in pitch and tempo. John pawed at his head, pulling his mouth away, in fear of him leaving a bruise.

"No marks, I don't like them."

"But how is everyone supposed to know that you belong to me then?" 

That did it for John. He came with a silent scream, tendons in his neck straining against Bobby's soft mouth, streams lancing up across his chest, almost catching Bobby's eyes just behind his shoulder. Bobby nosed into his neck, humming deeply in satisfaction, kissing him just behind his ear. They laid for some time like that, breathing slowing, John shifting slightly so they could kiss again, tongues languid, eyes half-shut. Bobby reached for his gear bag just under the seat, rifling through it for his towel, which he ran along John's front. The two of them righted themselves, John moving to get out and back into the front of the car, stopped by Bobby's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, not yet. C'mere, I wanna cuddle."

John snorted, but relented at the sight of Bobby's pout, moving to lay himself flat into his arms, head under his chin. The material of his shirt was soft, his hands rising to wrap around John's shoulders, a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Just to let you know," he said, voice rumbling in John's ear, "I'm a cuddler. Most guys don't like doing it with me after, but now I know I have you trapped I'm gonna make you do it."

John laughed, patting Bobby's stomach.

"That's alright. I'm not a huge fan of it usually but you're pretty comfy."

It was too hot to fall asleep, even with the AC on, which John was glad for. Eventually, he pulled up, Bobby following him with his eyes, face easy. He kissed his cheek once more, shifting to open the door. Bobby took his cue, getting out himself, the two of them piling into the front once more, now content and pleasantly exhausted.

Bobby took him home, dropping him off at the top of the street, John leaving him with a wave.

He pushed in the front door, his aunt in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables to be tossed into a pot on the stove beside her. She looked up as he came in, taking in his red face and messy hair, his slightly stupefied expression.

"Good day?"

"Very. I'm exhausted now."

He left her as she laughed, heading up to his room, shutting out the outside world, settling into himself once more. As much fun as he had had, it was nice to be in his own space once again. He curled up on his side in his bed, retrieving his phone, unsurprised to see a new message.

_ Hey, it's Bobby :) _

_ Thanks for giving me your number _

He couldn't help but laugh — his use of the same simple emojis enough of a signature as anything. He fired off a reply — a quick thumbs up — and locked his screen again, replaying the afternoon behind his eyes as he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets high, and invites Bobby over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor use of the word f*g in this chapter so watch out for that if you're sensitive, it's during the first section, as the boys talk about John's disdain at the idea of going to Bobby's party.

August, Summer of Junior Year

“Hey, I’ve got a party to go to on Saturday night, you feel like coming?” Bobby asked, one sweltering, humid day in August — the trees outside John’s window drooping weakly beneath the sun’s assault. 

John hummed as if in thought, sending a ripple up and down Bobby’s cock where it was held in his mouth. Bobby’s moan was low, distracted, practically an afterthought, his body nowhere near climax. They had been at it for a while, John seemingly not in a rush to take Bobby to the finish line, content merely with the feeling of having his mouth full, Bobby just along for the ride. He came off gently, his eyes watching Bobby’s watching his length slowly reveal itself from between John’s lips, grinning at him as he finally released and took him into his hand. He stroked him as he replied — grip loose, skating along the film of saliva, the pressure light enough to register without being too distracting — Bobby mostly listening.

“Is there gonna be booze?”

Bobby sighed — half at the sensation of John running his thumb beneath the skin of his head, pulling it back to flick his tongue along the seam — bringing his arms high above him in a stretch, John watching with fascination as his muscles shifted beneath the skin, moving off to plant a wet, ticklish kiss in the centre of his stomach.

“No,” he said finally, arms flopping down by his sides in dejection, “Jason’s a pussy, he’s too scared to get beers, he thinks his parents are gonna find out somehow. Meanwhile, they’re in Cancun and didn’t even tell him they were going until like a week before they left.”

“Bummer,” John replied, kissing at the skin where the base of Bobby’s cock met his thigh, pinching it slightly with his front teeth, just enough to hear him hiss, to have him bring his hand down across the back of his neck, the weight of it sending a thrill sparking through John’s limbs — a thrill he refused to interrogate, for fear of what it might unearth. 

“Are you gonna go? It’s a bunch of football guys — I don’t wanna be the only one there with a limp wrist.”

John snorted, diverting his attention to Bobby’s balls.

“Pass,” he said, taking one into his mouth, huffing another laugh around it as Bobby groaned — mostly in disappointment.

“Come on! It’s not like you have anywhere better to be!”

John came away from him with a loud pop, pushing up on his hands to drape himself across Bobby’s front, Bobby’s arm around his shoulders, their faces close. He took him into his hand once again, apparently now committed to finishing him. He spoke as his arm moved, his lips moving against Bobby’s, their gazes locked.

“As a matter of fact I do — Frances is going off to my Aunt Linda’s this weekend, I’ve got the house to myself Friday and Saturday night. And I have every intention in the world of rolling a fat joint and getting stoned out of my mind while I watch the entire Twilight Saga in one sitting.”

Bobby didn’t reply — too caught up in the feeling of John’s hand wrapped around him. The arm around his shoulder tightened, Bobby’s tongue on his, their twisting only interrupted when Bobby pulled back to cry into John’s mouth as he came over himself, his load mixing with the puddles of sweat across his chest, brought on by the unrelenting heat. John kissed his forehead as he came down, tasting salt on his brow as he towelled him off, chuckling to himself at the low whine he let out as John swept in between his legs.

They laid apart then, the humidity in the room leaving them feeling as though they were underwater — or in a boiling pot on the stove. Bobby turned on to his side, eyeing John with a pout — the same face he had made an hour previous when John had refused to blow him on grounds of the heat.

“Please? It’ll be fun.”

“Bobby,” John replied, turning on to his own side to face him, “What part of that party sounds like it would be fun for me? Is it the room full of meathead football players who wouldn’t have the mind to talk to me unless they were calling me a fag in the hallway at school, or the lack of alcohol to at least numb the boredom?”

Bobby’s face went hard at the sound of that word, his brows furrowing, turning his face away in annoyance, eyes boring a hole in the ceiling.

“They wouldn’t call you that, John. They’re not all assholes.”

“Hey, hey, relax, would you?” he replied, patting at Bobby’s chest, his fingers under his chin to turn his head back around to face him. He kissed at Bobby’s pout, the soft press of his lips enough for Bobby to huff a sigh against him, turning back over to face him again, “The ones at my school would, that’s all. I didn’t mean to insult your friends, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed, but his body relaxed where it had been tensed, John moving to stroke his fingers gently up the length of his side, poking in occasionally to draw out giggles from him as he batted at his hand, the mood successfully lightened.

“Sorry, I just don’t want you to think I’d purposefully invite you somewhere where you’d feel uncomfortable. You’re my friend, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I know, I know.”

They were quiet for a moment, before Bobby spoke again, a grin breaking out across his mouth, his eyes sparkling.

“So, you’ll go, right?”

“No.”

“Goddamnit.”

Despite John leaving him high and dry with regards to the party, Bobby — ever the gentleman — slid himself down to lay his head across his stomach, taking John into his own hand. He looked up to John’s grinning face, meeting it with a smile of his own, pausing his hand as he brought their lips together briefly, before closing the gentle warmth of his mouth around him. 

Later that day, the sunlight stretching itself low along the length of John’s street as if to eke out its last few minutes of influence, Bobby headed off home in his car, John leaning half-in through his passenger window.

“So you’re  _ sure  _ you don’t want to come on Saturday?”

“I’m sure. Although,” he added, coming closer, voice lowering, “If you get bored, I’ll have my whole house free if you wanna come down.”

Bobby nodded, starting up the engine, John pulling back with a wave.

“I’ll keep it in mind. See you.”

John watched his car until it turned out of sight, heading back inside into the relative cool of his house.

Later that week, John was on his front porch, taking in the scent of summer as it lingered in the air, the breeze cool on his skin, the sensation of gooseflesh even more pronounced as his whole body fizzed with his high.

He was spaced out, for the most part, staring with unfocused eyes up at the sky — imagining that the moon was far closer than it was, that if he could only raise the lead weight of his arm, he could pluck it out of the sky.

Occupied as he was, it took him a moment to register the vibration of his phone next to him, mistaking it for just another trick of his absent mind. He picked it up, shaking himself alert, waiting for the letters on the screen to arrange themselves into something coherent. He parsed Bobby’s name, feeling a smile emerge from his features of its own accord. He answered, and waited in silence for Bobby to say something.

_ “John?”  _ came his inquisitive voice, eventually. In his mind’s eye John could see him — eyebrows pulled together, mouth drooping slightly at the corners as his mind worked behind his eyes, practically audible on its own. It was a nice mouth, all things considered. Soft, lips just warm enough to tingle when they met John’s. His bottom lip seemed to jut out more so than anyone else John had ever kissed, which gave the impression that he was permanently caught in a pout. A pout John greatly enjoyed kissing off of his face, drawing out those melodic little giggles that-

_ “Helloooooooo? You there?” _

John snapped back to reality, his mind descending from the clouds and back into his body, a smile stretching across his face.

“Hi, sorry, sorry.”

_ “Dude, how high are you, geez!” _

“I'm not gonna lie, Bobby, I'm on the moon right now. Great view up here though, I can see our houses.”

He heard Bobby laugh down the line — a soft sound, too quiet to have been easily heard at a boisterous teenage birthday party. “Why’s it so quiet there? Shouldn’t there be a bunch of teenage straight guys yelling and stuff?”

Not that John knew what straight men got up to in private. Jean and Ororo had been his only friends for the majority of his life, and neither of them had been much interested in boys up until very recently.

_ “I’m outside,”  _ Bobby replied,  _ “I wanted to be actually able to hear you when I called.” _

John nodded, then, remembering that Bobby couldn’t see him, hummed down the line.

“Party not doing it for you, huh?”

_ “Nope. Scott brought beers — think his brother bought them for him or something.” _

“Ooh,” John replied, voice teasing, “I’m gonna tell.”

Bobby barked an exasperated laugh down the line, John suddenly occupied with the weeds poking up between the wooden steps of the porch. He pawed at one with the toe of his shoe, attempting to crush it between his foot and the step.

_ “There’s nothing to tell — the beers are non-alcoholic. I think Alex might have thought it would be funny to fuck with us, and I guess he wasn’t wrong.” _

John laughed, a sudden, involuntary giggle at the notion of it. That was it for him then — Bobby left hanging as he fell into a fit of laughter at the mental image of them all, so excited to have their little illicit beers, only for the disappointment to set in once they had all had a six pack each only to be entirely unaffected. He could practically hear the disappointed groans, the imagined sound of it uniquely funny to his hazy mind. He heard Bobby sigh down the line.

_ “I’m glad you think it’s funny, asshole.” _

“Sorry, sorry,” he replied, fighting his voice calm, “It’s not that funny. Sorry.”

He took a deep breath, holding it as he willed his laughter to dissipate.

_ “It’s fine. Joke’s on us, that’s all. The guys are all watching last week’s football game on Jason’s TV. Scott keeps calling out plays that he’s convinced they should have made instead. It’s so tedious, but they all seem into it.” _

“Bobby I’m gonna be honest with you that sounds like Hell on Earth to me.”

_ “Me too, believe that.” _

“You’re probably gonna head home soon then, huh?”

He heard Bobby’s quiet laugh down the line, his own mouth stretching into a grin again. They both knew where the conversation was going. It was the sole reason Bobby had called.

_ “Probably.” _

“You wanna stop off here on your way home?”

_ “You’re not on my way home. In fact, you live  _ past  _ my house. I’d be going out of my way.” _

John could hear the smirk on his words.

“Yeah, well, I think it’ll be worth your while.”

_ “You think? Why’s that?” _

“Because I’m stoned to high hell and I’m in the mood to get plowed into my mattress until I can't remember my own name.”

Bobby laughed in earnest then, a release in tension, John enraptured by the sound of it.

_ “I’ve never gotten horny when I smoked — not that I’ve done it much. Is that a thing?” _

John stood, suddenly conscious of the cold, moving back into his house, shutting the door behind him. As the blood coursed once again around his body, he found himself growing a little more lucid, a little more tethered to reality.

“So, according to my dealer, it has to do with the strand. I don’t know about all of that stuff, but basically he didn’t have my usual — the stuff that makes you space out and eat entire bags of cookies in one sitting — so he gave me the other stuff. You still get a buzz and go a little spacey but he said it might ‘make me a little extra sensitive’. I wasn’t sure what he had meant by that but I took my shirt off earlier to swap it for my sweatshirt-”

_ “You mean  _ my  _ sweatshirt,”  _ Bobby interrupted. John rolled his eyes, flopping himself back down on his couch, the third Twilight movie continuing its aimless plot as he stared at a spot in the darkness just above the television.

“You left it here, it’s mine now.”

_ “Whatever.” _

“I’ll give it back to you if you come here tonight.”

_ “I’ll think about it. Go on, you were taking your shirt off and then…” _

“Right, so, as I was doing it, I just get this full body sense of, like,  _ oh shit yeah right there  _ . Like you know when you’re making out with someone and they kiss you in the right place and your body feels like you just jumped in the tub with a toaster?”

_ “I would never describe that feeling in that way because I’m not a psychopath like you, but yes, I’m aware of it.” _

“Well, long story short, whatever the weed did to me, I think it turned my whole body into an erogenous zone,” he said, struggling with the process of getting the final words from his brain into his mouth and out into the air.

_ “Interesting,”  _ Bobby said, voice strangely thick in his mouth, as if his tongue had expanded,  _ “And you said you were — what was it now — looking to get ‘plowed into your mattress’? Did I hear that right?” _

“Yup. I’d rather it be you than trying to figure out Grindr when I can barely see straight.”

_ “I can be there in about a half hour, is that too late?” _

“I’ll be here, don’t worry. I’m not in danger of passing out any time soon.”

_ “Famous last words.” _

John chuckled.

“True, true. I feel bad dragging you away from your friends though.”

_ “No you don’t.” _

“No, you’re right, I don’t. Not at all. Get your ass down here.”

* * *

Twenty minutes after their call, John was stirred from his stupor — completely absorbed by the credits sequence of the film — alerted by the sound of Bobby’s car pulling into his driveway.

He stood — more quickly than his body was prepared for, the world spinning on its axis as if in protest — and flicked the TV off, making his way shakily over to the door. He opened it, revealing Bobby, hand poised to knock on the wood which had just been pulled away. He took John in, running his eyes up and down his body, mouth turning up at the sides at the sight of John’s face.

“Your eyes are so red, man.”

“Shut up,” he replied, the rest of his face flushing with colour as if in solidarity with them, ushering Bobby inside. He shut the door behind them, Bobby turning to face him. John brought his arms around his neck, Bobby's hands finding his hips, holding him gently as they swayed from side to side. Bobby sniffed the air theatrically, snuffling his nose into the crook of John's neck, eliciting a giggle as he batted at his head.

"Just checking you didn't make my sweatshirt stink of weed. I don't think my mom would appreciate that all so much."

"Nah, I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. A little innocent baby like you…" he replied, the fingers of one hand ghosting across Bobby's cheek, drawing him down to meet John's lips. It was gentle at first, the two of them shifting slightly as John leaned with his back against the wall, his body weary from the fuzz that had spread from the base of his skull, out into his extremities. As Bobby pressed up against him, the rough denim of his jeans so pleasant against John's mostly-bare legs, they began to grow more intense. Soon, Bobby's tongue was in his mouth, John's fingers in his hair, Bobby's hand trailing under the hem of his shirt. John's breath hitched as Bobby caressed his stomach, letting loose a moan that seemed to shake his whole body. Bobby pulled away, voice syrupy in his mouth once more, as if his tongue weighed twice as much as he was used to. 

"Fuck, you weren't kidding about being sensitive."

John shook his head, pressing their foreheads together, hoisting himself up into Bobby's arms, his legs around his waist. Bobby barely even seemed to register the weight of him, a pair of strong hands beneath John holding him up as he laughed.

"I know we've only been fucking around for a little while but I've never seen you like this before."

"Like what?"

"I dunno," he said, suddenly sheepish, perhaps afraid that he might slip up and ruin the mood, "A little more carefree, loose even, that's all."

John shrugged, eyebrow raised.

"Loose, huh?"

Bobby's lopsided grin eased out into a full-toothed smile.

"Well. Maybe not the word I'd use in this case. I don't think I'd ever describe you as loose."

John shook his head.

"I feel like this whole metaphor is getting away from us a little, don't you think?"

"A little, yeah."

John took Bobby's ear between his teeth, grinding down, enough to elicit a hissing laugh, moving to whisper, lips brushing against Bobby's cheek.

"Take me upstairs Bobby. Can you carry me the whole way? It's okay if you can't, I just like the feeling."

"I can try," he said, shifting his grip as they headed slowly up the stairs.

Bobby made it all the way, and without much sweating and teetering on the edge of the last step. Once they were safely within a few feet of his bed, John began to kiss him again, shucking both their shirts in the process before Bobby brought them heavily down onto his mattress. John left his legs where they were, Bobby's hands dancing light across his chest, John's skin buzzing with the same static that was clogging up his mind. He took Bobby's wrists, leading his hands to lay flat on his collarbone, bringing their eyes together.

"Start here and slide your hands all the way down to my stomach. Do it slow, but don't be afraid to press a little."

Bobby nodded, grateful for instructions, and did as he was told.

The effect was immediate. As Bobby's palm passed flat over his chest and down his ribs, John moaned again, his back arching to bring his and Bobby's hips even closer, grinding them together. By the time Bobby reached his stomach, John looked spent already, his face flushed, his breaths ragged. 

"That was so hot. You're so fucking sexy, Johnny."

"I told you not to call me that."

Bobby laughed at John's tone — admonishing, yet entirely toothless as he lay effectively at Bobby's mercy, on the verge of finishing just from the feel of his hands across his front.

"Do you need to get ready, or are we good to go, down there?"

"I'm good. I did it all before I smoked. I didn't wanna try that while I was high, I probably would have smacked my head off the tub and died. I don't need Frances to find me like that."

Bobby shook his head, muttering under his breath.

"So morbid."

John rolled his eyes, his mouth at Bobby's ear.

"Fuck me, Bobby. It's not often I'll say that to you, so you better make it worth it."

"You want me to get you ready?"

He nodded, unhooking his legs at Bobby's prompting, allowing him to slide his shorts off and kiss a line from his hip to his ankle all the while. Bobby peeled himself out of his jeans — the material stretched to bursting around his legs, throwing them over his shoulder as he rounded on John, the two of them settling fully onto the bed, John's head enveloped by the soft cloud of his pillow, his face subconsciously nuzzling into it.

"Don't fall asleep on me now," Bobby warned, letting a dollop of clear gel fall into his fingers, swirling it around as his hand went between John's legs. He hissed at the cold of it, Bobby aiming to distract him with a mouth on his nipple. He kept his teeth back, not wanting to overwhelm him while his nerves were clearly running on overtime. He traced a circle around John gently before pushing in, a thumb stroking across his cheek as he grunted in discomfort.

"Let me know if you need a break or anything, alright?"

"I'm good. It's just been a while. Put another in and then maybe start moving them."

Bobby nodded, bringing his head down to meet John's waiting lips. He took in the minute sounds John let loose as Bobby worked him open, delighting in his complete lack of self-consciousness as he gave himself over to Bobby. It wasn't the first time Bobby had topped him. It was a semi-regular occurrence between them. There was something about the way he seemed to melt beneath Bobby that was always so enjoyable to watch, his elaborate artifice of aloof coolness breaking away to reveal the warmth beneath. He kissed at his neck, drawing out another long moan that vibrated low in his chest, John scratching gently at the back of Bobby's head.

"That feels really good, buddy."

Bobby snorted in his ear, breaking the mood momentarily.

"Please don't call me buddy when we're having sex, my Dad calls me that."

"Baby?"

"That works."

Although, Bobby thought to himself, that was a word which could become very complicated indeed if they weren't careful.

"I'm probably about good for you to put it in."

He nodded, reaching for their little blue bottle once again. Bobby lined himself up, pausing as he prepared to push in, his whole body tensing suddenly. John's voice came to him, anxious at his sudden stop.

"Bobby, what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Condoms."

John's eyes shot open where they had fallen gently shut, his mind suddenly and sharply aware of the one thing he had forgotten to do that afternoon.

"Fuck! I'm out."

Bobby pulled back slightly, rifling through the pockets of his jeans for his wallet, digging through it to no avail.

"Goddamnit! I don't have any in here."

Bobby brought his head down to John's chest, the two of them breathing in sync.

"We can… uhh… we could do it without, I guess."

"Are you sure?"

"I mean-"

"No, John, are you  _ sure  _ ?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"I don't know!" he replied, exasperated, pausing as he lined up his next thought, "Have you been using protection with everyone else?"

The topic of their other romantic partners had mostly remained light to that point — anecdotes that laid somewhere on the spectrum of gross or funny, or awed tales of particularly noteworthy hookups. 

"It's only been you and about three other guys, in the last two months, to be honest. You kinda have a monopoly on me."

"I know that's bullshit because you have way too many stories about blowing guys for that to be just three other people."

Bobby blushed, scratching at his head.

"I thought you just meant butt stuff…"

"I did, mostly. Alright, alright. We can do it without. But just for tonight."

"Wait, wait. What about you?"

"Bobby, you're the only guy I've let top me in like a whole year. And you know I use protection, why else would I be out of them?"

"Am I really the only guy who tops you?"

Bobby's voice was quiet, brimming with smug pride. John met him with a look of complete incredulity, it being neither the time nor the place for that particular thread.

"Can we please have this conversation  _ after  _ we're finished?"

Bobby relented, palms in the air, bringing them down to the backs of John's thighs. He held John's legs up, ankles resting on his shoulders, and pushed in slowly.

"Oh fuck me, Jesus Christ. This is bad."

Bobby stopped immediately, his face contorted in pained concern.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, you fucker! It feels amazing, keep going!"

"Then why did you say that?"

"Because how in the hell are we supposed to go back to using condoms after this?"

Bobby tilted his head, his own face now contorted in disbelief.

"I can't stand you. I literally cannot stand you. I thought you were in pain!"

Bobby shook his head, pushing further into him until their hips met. John released a sigh as he bottomed out, running a hand up Bobby's stomach, fingertips massaging his muscles. Bobby understood what he was talking about — John felt incredible on the inside. It was all sensation — overwhelming heat and pressure. He caught John's eye, John throwing him a smile so full of genuine warmth that it hitched Bobby's breath in his throat.

"You're so pretty, Bobby. You really are. I'm so glad you came over tonight."

His face took on the colour of his lifeguard shorts as he buried it into the pillow, their cheeks touching. He mumbled out a muffled reply, John chuckling softly.

"I can't talk right now, it feels like my dick is gonna melt."

"Okay, well, you better start moving before it does."

Bobby nodded against him, the first tentative shift of his hips sending the two of them groaning into one another's mouths. He held John tightly, arms around his shoulders and lower back, setting a swift pace once they were both used to the new sensations. It was no use trying to go slow, no use in teasing. Without the latex to numb him, Bobby was on a short leash. John, hypersensitive, was lost in himself — rock hard the entire time, neither his nor Bobby's hands anywhere near him. They each knew it wouldn't be long, and so they worked together to get there. John spoke to him, one hand clawed on the back of his head, lips pressed to his ear, words of encouragement and praise dripping out from his mouth like honey. 

"C'mon baby, give it to me, you know how I like it."

He sat up, pulling out — John grunting half in discomfort and half in disappointment — grabbing John roughly by the legs to swing him around to the edge of the bed. He stood, angling downwards as he powered into him — harder than he had before. John's face was a heavy-eyed smile, mouth slack, noises somewhere between laughter and moans punching out of him each time Bobby slammed home. He grabbed at one of Bobby's hands — both of which were braced into the mattress for leverage — dragging it to his throat. Bobby rolled his eyes, pressing down hard, watching John's face for the minute signal that would tell him when he was at his limit. A slight nod was all he received, John grasping his wrist tightly to hold it in place, his eyes beginning to roll back towards the ceiling. 

"Are you passing out or is it just that good?"

His voice was breathless, sweat dripping from his forehead onto John's stomach.

"Both," he croaked in reply, one side of his grin widening.

Bobby huffed a laugh, rolling his hips to hit the spot inside of John that would take him over the edge. He was rewarded with frantic nodding, the hand that wasn't wrapped around his wrist clawing at his ass as he attempted to press him deeper. John's mouth opened wide as he came, Bobby easing up off of his throat slightly, a slightly hoarse groan echoing off in the confines of the room. Bobby watched him as he finished — almost in shock at how much came out of him, without the need for either of their hands — his own release not far off.

It took only another few moments, Bobby pushing through whatever discomfort John might have felt — spurred on by two hands now on his ass, holding him in place. He spoke to John, voice frantic, the thought arriving to him almost too late.

"Where?"

It took John a moment — a moment neither of them truly had — to reply, his face opening in sudden realization.

"Take it out, on my chest, please."

Bobby nodded, pulling himself free, his hand a blur as he fisted his length. He practically exploded over him, a shot flying over John's shoulder and up his headboard, another arcing across his face. John's hands were everywhere at once, sweeping across Bobby's skin, just to touch him as he came down from his high. With a final shudder, Bobby deflated into himself, leaning heavily over John's exhausted form, his arms threatening to give out beneath him. Their eyes met, quiet awe spreading between them at what they had done.

"Bobby, I-"

"Yeah," he cut him off, nodding, neither of them needing words.

"Shower with me."

Bobby nodded again, head loose on his neck, still gulping down breaths, standing on shaky legs, hand outstretched for John to take and haul himself up. 

Under the spray, they leaned heavily on one another, just barely enough energy to rinse off whatever mixture of bodily fluids had coated them. They didn't speak.

"What time do you have to be home?" John asked once they were dry, his body held neatly within Bobby's arms, their legs together, Bobby's fingers trailing through his hair. Bobby looked at his phone, sighing.

"I've got about a half hour before I have to leave if I wanna make it home in time."

"Right," he said, nodding thoughtfully, "Or, you could stay? Do you think your parents would mind?"

John hated the sound of his own voice — the doe-eyed, hopeful timbre making him nauseous. Bobby smiled down at him sadly, his palm flat on his stomach, rolling a slow circle into him, John's eyes closing in comfort.

"Sorry. I have stuff in the morning I gotta get to."

"It's alright," he replied, trying not to sound like it was anything but, and failing.

"Your aunt isn't back til Monday, right?"

John nodded.

"Maybe I could stay tomorrow night then? I can ask my parents in the morning. I'll tell them you got spooked staying here all by yourself and needed a big strong man to keep you company."

He broke into a fit of giggles as he trailed off, pressing a line of kisses up John's cheek and onto his forehead, the two of them laughing all the while. As they settled, John met his eyes, a gentle grip on his chin tilting his face down to him, Bobby still snorting on occasion, his expression threatening to break.

"Please don't say that. I don't want to have to kill you when we have such a nice arrangement going on."

Bobby finally got his giggles under control, pulling John closer, his head beneath Bobby's chin.

"I'll ask them."

"Alright," he replied, his yawn stretching so long that Bobby looked down at him in surprise, eyebrows raised. "Will you stay until you absolutely  _ have  _ to leave though?"

Bobby kissed his forehead once, nodding.

"Sure. Just don't fall asleep on me."

"I would never," John replied, eyes already shut.

Bobby was awoken from his dozing by the buzz of his phone, his Mom's contact lighting up his screen. He swiped it over off of the bedside table, careful of John's sleeping form curled up against him.

"Hello?"

_ "Are you leaving Jason's?" _

"Just got in the car. I should be about twenty minutes getting home."

_ "Oh, okay,"  _ she replied, clearly having expected him to have protested and asked for an extension to his curfew.

"Yup. I'll see you soon, love you."

They hung up, Bobby sighing as he began to extricate himself from John. Mercifully, he seemed to roll away of his own accord, settling deeper into his cushions with a sleeping whine and a smile. Bobby watched him, chuckling to himself as he pulled his clothes on. Fully dressed, he leaned down, shaking John with a palm across his chest. He inhaled sharply, eyes coming slowly open, face twisted in sleepy annoyance.

"What?"

"I'm heading home. Just wanted to let you know."

"Okay," he replied, with a nod and a sigh. He leaned over, pressing his lips briefly to Bobby's, flopping back down as he waved him off. "Thanks for tonight. Let me know if you can stay tomorrow."

"I will. Sleep okay."

John threw him a thumbs up, and that was that.

Bobby slid into his car, taking one last look at John's house in the rear view before pulling away and into the night.

* * *

_ Sorry I was so clingy last night, that weed really got my ass together _

John fired off his text in the late afternoon, having woken up only a couple of hours before. He had risen to a text from Bobby — a photo of himself sleeping, buried in his covers, a caption attached;  _ All tuckered out :)  _ . He had groaned, swiping out to check his social media to see if Bobby had been cruel enough to post it. He hadn't, which bade well for his continued existence on planet Earth.

It was another few hours before Bobby responded, John having migrated to his porch to smoke a — weed-free — cigarette, trailing grey smoke up into the dry air. Hot as it was, he could feel the weather beginning to turn, the slow descent into autumn that was heralded by the return to school in a couple of weeks time. He wasn't dreading it as much as he had anticipated, something about that particular summer having left him feeling as though something had changed, as if he were somehow lighter, more himself.

_ It's okay. _

_ It was kinda cute :) _

John rolled his eyes at the message, grimacing at the notion of anyone ever describing him as cute.

_ Fuck off _

_ Are you still coming down tonight? _

_ Yeah, I'm on my way now actually _

Bobby punctuated his message with a picture from his car, the Mormon church visible in his rear view mirror. John replaced his phone, sitting back in his porch chair as he burned down the last of his smoke. 

It didn't take long for him to pull up, sliding into John's driveway as if he lived there. He made his way over to stand opposite John, leaning against the wooden railing, watching him as he slowly rocked in his creaky chair.

"How are you feeling?"

John shrugged, puffing on his cigarette.

"I'm good. Not much of a hangover from weed, not at our age anyway. It's my ass I'm worried about."

Bobby grimaced apologetically, his face flushing.

"Sorry, might have got a little carried away."

"It's alright," John said, waving him off, "I was a bad influence."

"You're good though, right?"

"Well, I won't be going again tonight if that's what you're insinuating, but no, I'm fine."

"Okay, good," he said, nodding finally in assent, "Tell you the truth, I'm pretty worn out myself. That was intense last night!"

"You're telling me!" he exclaimed, cigarette flapping wildly between his lips as if to emphasize his point, "My whole body felt like I got struck by lightning  _ before  _ you decided to knock down a wall in my ass!"

Bobby smirked.

"Was it a load bearing wall?"

John took one final drag off of his cigarette, stubbing it out into a plant pot which had been repurposed by he and his aunt as an ashtray after neither of them could get their cacti to stay alive. He stared at Bobby the whole time, his expression impassive.

"Go home. I'm sick of you already."

Bobby cackled as he followed him inside, the two settling into the kitchen, Bobby feigning innocence, elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. His eyes followed John as he moved around the room, waiting for him to notice.

"Are you h-"

John's question was interrupted by Bobby's stomach — a guttural, deep rumble that practically echoed around the whole house.

"Yeah, I'm hungry," Bobby replied, deadpan, without missing a beat.

"What do you want?"

"Whatever you're making — or are you ordering?"

John made a face, clearly deliberating.

"I was just gonna cook. I got takeout last night, I don't wanna get fat."

"You've got a long way to go before that happens, Johnny."

"Probably, but still. Are you okay with, like, spicy noodles or something?"

"I'm not a huge fan of instant ramen but yeah, sure, sounds good to me."

John turned to him, face quizzical.

"No, like, real noodles."

"Oh!" Bobby replied, face wide in realization, "You're like  _ cooking  _ cooking!"

John shook his head, pans clattering as he began his work. He had Bobby chopping — his lack of precision with the knife not a big deal when it was all just getting tossed in a pan and fried anyway. The meal came together quickly, John aware that Bobby would probably eat twice as much as him, adjusting his portions accordingly. Soon enough, they were on the couch, the penultimate Twilight film playing, Bobby's face increasingly disturbed at the events playing out on screen.

"Is straight sex really like that?"

"So I hear," John replied, piloting his final mouthful of noodles into his mouth. He laid back, pleasantly full, stretching high towards the ceiling, his body shivering as he reached the peak of the movement. Bobby watched him all the while, his own bowl — twice as large as John's — long empty. John stood then, their meagre amount of dishes clean in no time, returning to Bobby, who now laid out on his side on the couch, his legs stretched across the cushions. John laid beside him, his back to his front, Bobby's arm draping loosely over his waist.

"Is this too much? Are we pushing it?" John asked, suddenly conscious of their proximity to the edge, no longer blinded by their need for release. It wasn't that they weren't physical often — their friend group was accustomed to platonic acts of intimacy, up to, including and even beyond cuddling on couches together. Yet, alone in John's house, the memory of the previous night sitting between them, the complicated nature of their arrangement began to assert itself. Feeling the knot of anxiety begin to tighten around his lungs, John swallowed, taking in a deep breath and holding it, waiting for Bobby to answer.

"Relax," he said finally, voice smooth in John's ear, heavy already with sleep, "My friends and I cuddle like this all the time."

"Your  _ straight  _ friends?"

Bobby nodded against him.

"The football guys are all real touchy-feely with each other — more so than we are to be honest. There's probably something in that — that they're so performatively masculine on the field and in their public lives that once they're in private, they let themselves indulge in their homoerotic impulses."

John turned himself half over to meet Bobby's face, his disbelief plain on his features.

"Excuse me? I thought you were supposed to be a dumbass, where the hell did that come from?"

"I keep telling you, I'm dumb, not stupid. There's a difference. I read."

John returned his gaze to the TV, still reeling. It didn't take long for them to fall asleep, the low murmur of voices on the screen the perfect soundtrack. It wasn't the first time they had slept together — really, actually slept. Bobby had stayed over a few times prior, a couple of hookups that started later than planned and dragged past curfew, as well as some movie nights with the girls that Bobby had turned into sleepovers with a simple bat of his eyes and a pouting kiss at John's cheek. They usually slept apart, if space allowed for it, Bobby's body splayed as if falling out of the sky, John curled in on himself. Occasionally, John would awake with Bobby wrapped around him, light breathing in his ear, the iron bar of a teenage erection jabbing him in his back.

John awoke before him on the couch, a quick glance at his phone confirming that he had only slept for a half hour, the film not even over yet. Bobby was still snoring gently, his face pressed so close to the back of John's head that his lips grazed his neck. He scrolled through his phone as he waited for Bobby to stir, which didn't take long. He came awake swallowing against his dry mouth, nuzzling his face closer to John in an attempt to stave off waking, to no avail. He sat up, rubbing at his bleary eyes, John watching him from the cushions, phone tucked beneath his chin. Bobby let loose a long yawn, scratching at his chest.

"I know it's kinda early but do you just wanna go to bed? Probably comfier than the couch, and we're clearly not watching the movie anyway."

"Bobby, it's nine thirty."

"So?" he shrugged, "It's not like we're going to sleep, I just wanna get snuggled."

John shrugged, relenting. They stood, tidying the living room, John giving up on ever getting to the end of the Twilight movies as the TV was switched off. They made their way to John's room, settling under the covers, propped up by his pillows, each on their phones, John's laptop playing music at a low volume. They didn't speak a whole lot, save only to point out something on a phone screen, laughing at short videos or staring slack-jawed at some soulless hunk's instagram post of his 'pizza-fuelled' body. 

Eventually Bobby locked his phone, massaging his tired eyes as he lowered himself flat.

"How are you set for school?" he asked.

"I'm alright," John replied, with a shrug, "Probably won't see you as often, since we'll be busier. Are you still gonna be working at the pool, or is it closed?"

"They're keeping me on, they have an indoor site that'll be opening back up soon enough. Three shifts a week, not too bad."

"Three? Are you going after school?"

"We get a half day on Wednesdays. It's some holdover from the fifties, when kids used to have to go to their jobs or whatever. Guess I'm keeping that tradition alive, now that I think about it!"

"Lucky. No half-days at my school. They need maximum exposure to make sure your spirit is well and truly crushed by the time you graduate."

John joined Bobby down on the mattress, the two of them staring at the ceiling, their shoulders together, the backs of their hands just barely glancing one another.

"But yeah, I guess I'll see less of you and the girls. Ororo didn't stay on at the pool, so I won't see her there. It's fine," he shrugged, "There's still weekends and breaks and stuff. And I can still be out before curfew on school nights. We can go for drives or chill here or whatever."

"I guess," John said, voice distant, his mind drifting to visions of he and Bobby and their friends growing distant, scattered by the necessary responsibilities of their lives, the fissures between them growing until they-

"Johnny, stop."

Bobby's voice cut through his thoughts, startling him back to reality, back to Bobby's eyes, soft as they watched him in the half light. He brought his palm flat against John's cheek, drawing him close to place a kiss on his forehead.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. But just don't get caught up. We're not going anywhere. Not without you, at any rate."

John took another deep breath, a great shuddering inhale, breathing out slow until the tightness in his chest lessened to a pressure he could handle. Bobby's eyes were on him the whole time, a warm, broad palm rubbing circles into his stomach. He turned to face him again, both of his hands on either side of Bobby's head, squishing his features just enough for the two of them to laugh, the tension successfully diffused. After a pause, John spoke, voice back to neutrality.

"Do you wanna make out until it's time for bed?"

Bobby smiled at him, shuffling his head closer on the pillow, meeting his lips with just enough pressure to chase away what was left of John's unease. He melted into Bobby with a sigh, their arms working around one another, Bobby's hand supporting his neck as he pressed him close.

They let night fall around them as they moved together, never going beyond a hand under a shirt or a quick grind of the hips through their clothes, content to ride out the sensation as they were, without forcing themselves into something unnecessary.

Sleep came for them eventually, John curled uncharacteristically up at Bobby's side, his arm stretched wide across his chest, one of Bobby's around his shoulders.

Outside, the trees began to shift, summer's last breaths rustling their leaves as they began to fade from green into gold.


	4. Out Of My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets high and invites Bobby over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Girl, this chapter was saved as a draft and I Do. Not. remember uploading it.  
> Anyway, enjoy!  
> Edit: turns out the saved draft was of chapter 3...  
> Anyway here's the real one

September, Senior Year

Summer ended as it always did — knifed in the back by the return to school, footsteps over its still-warm corpse as John and the rest of his classmates trudged off to their final year of high school.

He hadn't seen Bobby in the flesh in almost two weeks — his night in John's house after Jason's party the last time either of them had stayed over with the other since. Bobby had been added to the group text maintained by Jean, Ororo and John, rounding out their numbers neatly, his contributions easily fitting the mould of their conversations, his sense of humour blending seamlessly with their own. Bobby called him on occasion, the two of them wasting evenings watching the dark closing in around them, their words light, without substance, the perfect background noise.

Sometimes, Bobby would send him photos as he showered, as he dressed, as he brought his hands over himself under his covers at night. John lingered on them as they came in, the lines of his body across his skin a meagre substitute for the real thing which had weighed so heavily in his bed, in his car, in his arms. He very rarely reciprocated, but Bobby was always encouraging once he did.

They had planned to hang out later that week with the girls, although he was skeptical if they would make it, busy as they were — as they _all_ were. John didn't much mind if it turned out to be just he and Bobby — it certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

John was cycling that day, his and Jean's arrangement to carpool having fallen through when she called him at seven thirty sounding like she had one foot in the grave already. And so he had had to brave the morning traffic, rain drifting down in a gauzy haze, relatively undisturbed by the weak, if sharp, breeze. For most, cycling in weather such as that morning would be a dreadful affair, a bad start to a worse day. For John — although he wasn't exactly elated, he wasn't completely insane — it was decidedly more pleasant, autumn's gentle chill easing him out of the near-omnipotent heat of the summer. He breezed dangerously through traffic, to a chorus of honks that followed him as he slipped through the spaces in between cars, millimeters away from clipping a side mirror and going careening over the handlebars.

The parking lot was still mostly empty as he arrived, having erred on the side of being early. It gave him time to ease himself into the day, to prepare his mind for the onslaught of perfectly engineered misery that was the public education system. He sat on a low wall by the bike racks, lighting up a cigarette, watching the smoke trail grey up into the clouds, eyes closing as he sighed, exhaling softly. As he reopened them, his gaze met another, not ten feet away, behind the windshield of another car. He knew the guy's name, vaguely — Simon, Daniel, some nondescript name that matched his bland face, his expected handsomeness, his unsurprising build. He played football, John knew that much, but he wasn't the star player, not the one who was fawned upon by the girls, not the one who had a scholarship waiting for him which he could piss away until his father hired him for a senior position at the firm he owned. 

No, he was headed straight for a dead end. He would be lucky to leave their town, to do something other than waste away among the derelict strip malls and gas stations that littered their roads, the endless winding web of interstate and highways that shepherded the residents from nothing to nowhere.

John looked away politely, not aiming for any sort of confrontation so soon into the school year. His plans were foiled as he walked over, approaching John with that same furtive apprehension that had become so familiar to him as his encounters with men became more frequent. Something in John lit up — he knew that walk.

"Hey," the guy — Simon, or Daniel — offered, his voice clipped, his eyes darting around him as if they might be observed at any moment. Which, they could — cars were already beginning to stream in slowly. He stood with his hands in his pockets, slouching as if he could reduce himself, as if he could recede into the asphalt beneath them, melt into the core of the earth and never be seen again.

"Hey," John replied, voice cautious, but open, "Simon, right?"

The guy nodded, although it was such a slight movement that John still wasn't sure. He took a deep breath, and let his words spill out of him, as if tipping the contents of himself over at John's feet.

"Yeah, I… uhh… I just wanted to apologise, to you. For everything. All the names, and stuff, over the last couple years. That uhh… it wasn't right. I'm sorry."

Simon's eyes were on his shoes, his voice quiet, his apology standing in so obviously for something bubbling under the surface that it would have taken only the slightest touch to send him spiralling.

"That's… uhh… thank you, Simon. For that. I didn't let it hit me too hard, figured it didn't mean much, but it's nice to hear all the same."

Simon nodded, still unwilling to meet John's eyes. John watched him bring his wrist to his face, digging a knuckle into his eye, sniffing slightly. He was crying.

"I didn't know what I was doing," he said. John didn't quite grasp his meaning, but Simon continued before he could ask, "I didn't understand what was happening. It made me angry… to see you, the way you were. It hurt. And… I know I hurt you, and that wasn't right but I only did it because-"

John swallowed. He knew what Simon was trying to say, what he didn't have the words for.

"You don't have to say it, Simon. I know."

"You know?" he asked, eyes snapping up — red rimmed and wet, shining in the weak morning light. His fists were clenched at his sides, a warning of violence — against whom, John wasn't sure.

"I think I do, anyway. You don't have to say it. No one has to know unless you want them to."

Simon's lip quivered, clearly unused to being understood.

"If… uhh… I dunno if you maybe would meet with me, and talk? About all of this stuff? I just… I don't…" 

John was taken aback, but he tried not to show it too hard on his face. Students were beginning to notice the two of them talking, whispers already taking flight, rustling the piles of leaves already forming at the base of the trees.

"Sure, Simon. Did you… wanna do it at school, or?"

"Maybe we could take a drive, after class? I promise it's not some bullshit — I'm not gonna hurt you."

The last part came all at once, along with a widening of his eyes, the sudden appearance of fear in his features — the fear that John could hurt him in turn, could reveal his truth. Not that John had evidence, not that John had the capacity to convince the student body of what he believed to be Simon's secret. Not that he had the desire to do so. What use was causing someone else pain? It wouldn't undo anything John had experienced, that was for sure.

"Right. That works for me, I guess," John replied, glancing at the now almost filled lot, "Go on, go. Before someone sees you talking to me and starts asking questions."

That seemed to be enough for Simon, who nodded, darting off into the school, John finishing his forgotten cigarette, the ash having grown long as they had spoken. He stubbed it out, flinging it at the foot of the bush to his left, dragging himself to class, his thoughts occupied by this new development.

Often, John found that the monotony of his school days had the opposite effect than what one would anticipate. Rather than slowing to a crawl, each indistinguishable second longer than the last, he found that the day would speed up as his mind drifted off, severing his connection to reality around him, only peering back occasionally to answer when he was called upon, or to write down perfunctory notes that he was never going to look at again. He wasn't a bad student. His grades hovering somewhere just above middle of the road, good enough that he could go to a nice college if he applied himself a little harder, or to a merely okay college if he stayed at baseline. He had yet to decide which road to go down.

He sat, a stone at the bottom of a river, the hours passing over and around him like rushing water, until the final bell rang. 

Emerging out into the evening — the setting sun an egg yolk splattered against the white-tile wall of the clouds — John spied Simon, sitting in his car once again, his eyes staring straight ahead. He acknowledged John as he passed to get to his bike, nodding at him once. It was clear where to go from there. John would smoke a cigarette — maybe two — enough time for the parking lot to clear out, for the people who would be keen to observe his and Simon's exchange in fine detail to retreat. He watched people pile into cars, watched Simon's friends — fellows from the football team, one of whom John knew very well — another closet case who always looked on the verge of tears whenever he finished inside of John's mouth, and who would keep his hands firmly away from John's body, unwilling to touch him, to acknowledge the reality of another man between his legs. 

They huddled around Simon's car on the driver's side, their backs to John, chattering their endless talk, wondering if he was gonna go to that college party next week, if he had any plans with that girl he had been seeing — a girl he had invented, from what description John could glean of her. They left him in a chorus of echoing shouts, clearly satisfied by whatever answer he had given — enough to secure his masculinity in their eyes, at least. As the last of them pulled away, their too-expensive cars rumbling off down the road, Simon nodded at John to join him. He wheeled his bike over, Simon getting out, hoisting it onto the back, where there was a rack waiting. John watched him as he moved, his loose t-shirt pulling up to reveal his skin as his arms raised. He felt his mouth water, and swallowed, somewhat embarrassed.

They slid into the front seats, Simon refusing to look at him, John following suit as if his mirroring would be a comfort. He pulled the car out of the lot, turning the radio off as it started up, opting for total silence.

It was only after some time, once they had exited onto a small road flanked by trees, that Simon spoke.

"I think I'm gay."

He said it without inflection, his voice flat, his eyes on the road. John blinked once, and nodded.

"I figured."

"Why?" he replied, knuckles straining white as his grip on the wheel tightened, John watching the whole time, "Do I seem gay?"

"No, no," he said, hoping the anxious streak in his voice would be mistaken for something more soothing, "I just thought since you came to me, it must have been that. I don't think you act gay, whatever that means."

He watched Simon relax, his whole body releasing tension as he exhaled.

"I'm really confused, John."

"Why is that?"

"I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Or who I talk to. Do I tell people? I've never even been with a guy before, so how do I even know?"

"You need to slow down."

John meant it figuratively and literally — Simon had sped up considerably as he had spoken. He blinked, his foot rising off the pedal, his face apologetic.

"Do you know that you like boys?"

He nodded, jaw set, eyes somewhere else.

"Since forever."

"Right. And you… you've never been with a guy, before?"

He shook his head. They had parked by this point, an out of the way picnic area that hadn't seen action since the sixties at the very latest. They settled further into the car seats, Simon's eyes trained on a single patch of sky outside, as if it held for him the answers to the questions swirling and undulating in his mind. John watched him quietly, waiting for him to open up at his own pace.

"There was a guy, once. It was last year. He was a senior, on the football team. We were the last ones in the shower one night, and he… he kissed me. We had just been talking, and I guess I hadn't noticed how close he got to me — or maybe I did notice and I didn't say anything because I wanted it to happen. I thought my head was going to explode — I didn't know how to react. I kissed him back for a little, and he went to put his hand on my stomach and I just fucking panicked. I socked him in the jaw and got out of there. I barely even dried myself off. I remember, I saw him in the hall the next day with this big bruise, and he looked at me, and he didn't even look angry. He looked at me the way people looked at me when my grandma died, as if he felt bad for me — _me!_ Even after I was the one who hit _him_ . That was a year ago. I've been thinking about it ever since."

"Was that Kevin Masters?" John asked, voice neutral.

"How did you-"

"Kevin and I hooked up a few times last year. He was sweet. He didn't tell me about you by name, but he told me one night that a friend of his was going through some shit, and it made him feel really shitty because he had tried to help but he had just made it worse. I guess he was talking about you, but I'll never know."

John wished he had made that story up for Simon's benefit, yet it had all happened just as he had said. He had left out the crying on Kevin's part after the fact — his delicate, if loud, sobbing into John's shoulder as they had laid together in his bedroom which still bore the regalia of his childhood, one which he spent apparently enamoured with horses — not wanting to ruin his reputation in Simon's eyes. He saw Simon well up, saw the flood beating against the wall of his body, screwed tight into itself, a valve fit to burst.

"Did he… was he… what did you guys do together?"

Simon looked at him finally as he voiced his question, his eyes a deep brown that lent his face a mournful quality. John shrugged, groping for the least awkward explanation of their arrangement.

"I blew him a couple of times, that's all. He didn't do anything back, and I didn't ask him to. He was still a little confused, still didn't know what he wanted, or what he was. So I just gave him an out. Plus, he got to talk to me after, which seemed to help him."

Simon seemed to contemplate the prospect.

"Maybe we could do that."

"You want me to blow you?"

Simon flinched at the question, John fearing he might have pushed him too far.

"Hey, sorry. I was trying to make a joke out of it — lighten the mood, you know? We don't have to do anything you don't want to-"

"I do, want to, is the thing. I just… I don't know."

"I could kiss you? Maybe ease into it?"

Simon shrugged, palms raising with the heave of his shoulders — he overwhelmed the space of the car with his body, already tall without the added bulk of the rest of him. He looked defeated, his eyes still on the dashboard. John was turned towards him in his seat, but didn't dare come closer. As much sympathy as he felt for them, men like Simon needed to be treated like the caged animals they were, approached cautiously and only ever on their terms. Eventually, Simon seemed to remember that John was there, glancing at him, taking a moment to bring himself together, before leaning in and touching his lips against John's. He was warm, his face radiating heat against John's clammy skin in the confines of the car. He kept his mouth closed, John matching him. Their lips didn't move, the kiss remaining mostly static, save for Simon's breathing in John's ears. Simon pulled away with a quiet sound, his eyes opening where they had fallen shut.

"Was that okay?" John asked, still cautious of how much damage Simon could do to him within the tight space of the front seat. Mercifully, he nodded, swallowing, moving closer again, his palm rising to grip John's jaw lightly. They began to kiss in earnest then, lips moving against one another, the tip of Simon's tongue just barely grazing along the ridge of John's lower lip. He decided to push him a little, running his own tongue more assertively along the parting of Simon's mouth. For a moment, he thought he had made a huge mistake, as Simon's hand tightened on his jaw. Soon enough, he relaxed, mouth opening, his hand moving to take hold of John's wrist, dragging it over to his stomach, encouraging him to touch. Simon's hand stayed where it was, clamped around John's wrist — the idea of touching John in turn perhaps not yet welcome to him. John obliged however, not displeased with the feeling of Simon's body beneath his fingers. He was a little softer than Bobby, a slight layer of fat beneath his skin like a buffer, dulling the sharpness of his angles and corners. John shifted in his seat, trying to get closer as he fell deeper into Simon, thwarted by the console between them. Simon seemed to pick up on it, pulling away, eyeing John carefully, his breaths coming quick and shallow.

"I'm gonna lift you, just watch your head, okay?"

John didn't have much time to react as he was hoisted into Simon's lap in one quick movement, the two of them entirely too much for the driver's seat. Simon's hands came to rest on John's hips, and didn't move from there, his fingers gripping and releasing erratically as their kiss continued. John brought a hand to run through his hair, which he seemed to enjoy, if the throbbing weight in his jeans, pressed up against John's stomach, was anything to go by.

"I… John-"

He pulled off, speaking to Simon's ear, fingers of one hand splayed wide beneath the front of his shirt.

"Talk to me. What do you need?"

"Would you really uhh… would you be able to…" 

He trailed off, unsure of how to voice his want.

"Tell me."

"I want you to blow me, like what you did with Kevin. You don't have to, I just…"

"Get in the backseat."

They moved quickly, in silence, tipping themselves out of the car and into the cold once again, shuffling together into the back of the car. Simon sat at one end, John stretched out along the length of the seats, his head in Simon's lap. He looked up at him briefly, to confirm.

"You're sure?"

He nodded.

"I need you to say yes or no, Simon."

"Yes, please."

John unbuttoned his jeans, not bothering with the usual slow teasing. It was wasted on guys like Simon, at least at the stage they were at in that moment. He gripped his waistband, shucking everything down to his knees, leaving him in his underwear, his breathing already hitching. He was big, that was for sure, John palming it lightly, watching his face contort as he struggled not to make any noise. His whole body was a tight coil of tension, one arm held rigidly along the back of the seat, his hand holding on to the headrest for dear life, his other elbow resting by the window, his fingernails bitten raw. John freed him from the confines of his underwear, watching it spring forth, heavy against his stomach.

"You're pretty big," he breathed, the warmth of his words sending a shiver up Simon's body.

"I don't know."

"No, I'm telling you you are. At least one of us is definitely gonna have fun."

Simon couldn't help but laugh, his face cracking into a grin, the hand at his mouth coming down to rest at the back of John's neck, urging him on as he swallowed him in. It took some getting used to his size, but otherwise everything was as usual. Simon was in tatters above him, entirely overwhelmed by the new sensations, the warmth of John's mouth, the soft pressure of his tongue. He didn't speak, struggling openly to keep his voice under control, moans squeaking out from his mouth whenever he lost whatever battle with himself that he was fighting. John could feel his stomach begin to spasm, could feel his hips moving of their own accord, could feel him attempting to bury himself deeper and deeper into John's throat. John held him off with a grip on the base of his cock, stopping his entire length from going down, taking him closer and closer to the edge. He could hear Simon begin to whine, could feel his breathing grow more and more erratic under his hand, and knew he was close.

Simon came silently, knuckles in his mouth, John almost struggling to swallow all of him down, the two of them breathing heavily through their noses, although for different reasons. Eventually he calmed, easing off of the back of John's head, allowing him to sit up, wiping at his mouth and eyes with the back of his sleeve, eyeing Simon cautiously once more as he pulled everything back up his legs. They sat for a moment, John tense in anticipation of a possible meltdown, Simon still breathing heavily through his nose and out through his mouth as he came down. He spoke finally, quiet.

"That was… I don't know what to say."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes."

"That's all you need to say then," John replied, a light kiss to the corner of Simon's jaw. Simon chuckled, pulling John over to sit, his forearm wrapped around his chest.

"Thank you," he said, speaking to John's hair, "I'm really sorry about everything last year. You didn't deserve that. It won't happen again, from now on. Okay? If any of those fuckers on the team — or anyone else — says anything to you, I'll fuck them up, alright? You just tell me who it was."

He punctuated his words with kisses, John awash in the feel of him, his release having unleashed some torrent of affection which had been bottled up. John nodded, a difficult feat with Simon's arm where it was.

"Thanks, Simon. And," he added, twisting around so he could see his face, could see that this wasn't a trick, that John wasn't about to pull the rug out from beneath him, "No one will find out about you, okay? I promise."

Simon pulled at John again, bringing him to sit sideways across his lap, his back to the car door. His head fell to Simon's shoulder, his breath warm against his neck, Simon's arm now draped loosely around his waist.

"Sit with me here for a while, hmm? I don't wanna let go of you just yet."

John didn't protest, as much out of sympathy for Simon as his own personal enjoyment of the feeling of being held. As time went on, John felt himself grow restless, felt the need to get himself home and into bed, into his own space again. Fortunately, his stomach rumbled at just the right time, breaking Simon out of what was unnervingly similar to a lovestruck haze. The two disentangled from one another, sliding back into the front seat, Simon taking him home, John pointing out the way as they went.

He left him at the top of his street, leaning over to kiss him once more.

"Thanks, again. Maybe we can do this again some time."

"Maybe. See you around, Simon."

* * *

Later that week, John found himself once more sitting on that same low wall, bricks practically crumbling beneath his fingers, his eyes on his phone. It was Friday, and he and his friends were supposed to be going for food after class, the first gathering they had all had together since school started. 

Jean had called off first, having been summoned by her parents for a weekend at their relatives' house to celebrate someone's birthday — a cousin she hadn't even met in fifteen years, home from Afghanistan.

"Or something like that, something dumb, I don't know," she had explained to John that morning as she drove them both to school.

Ororo wasn't able to make it either, having forgotten that she and her father were going to visit her grandmother in the hospital. There had been an air of deep sadness around her, Bobby had said, as she explained — the prognosis grim. John had sent her a long text, wishing her well, hoping for the best. Ororo had sent him back a single heart, probably all she was capable of at the time.

_I'm leaving school now, got held up_

_See you in like fifteen_

Bobby's text came through as John lit up a smoke, settling in for his wait. Bobby was his ride home, unless he was planning on sticking around another two hours for his aunt to come pick him up — a prospect only marginally better than walking home. He sent him a thumbs up, leaning back on his arm as he watched everyone leave. Across the parking lot, he spied the football guys — all parked next to one another — loudly going back and forth about that week's training. He watched Simon, laughing among them, looking comfortable as he ever did in his friends' company. John wondered if he had told them, if they had accepted him easily, and that this was simply their same paradigm, unchanged. Somehow, from the unease that would flash across Simon's face whenever _that_ word cracked in the air like a pistol, John figured that that probably wasn't yet the case. He saw Simon look up, watched recognition spark across his face, watched him look back sheepishly to his friends, waiting for them to disperse.

They did, eventually, rumbling off in their BMWs, their Mercedes, their cars entirely unsuitable for a teenager driving to high school, too ostentatious, too conspicuous. It was the kind of car you only ever saw on the news, wrapped around a telephone pole, the phrase "a promising football scholarship awaiting him" echoing in the newscaster's monotone. Simon drove over to him, swinging his car around next to where John sat, emerging to lean against the hood with his arms folded.

"Hey." 

It was the first time they had spoken since his confession.

"What's up?" John replied, his voice neutral, but not unpleasant.

"You need a ride home or something? Where's your bike?"

"I usually hitch a ride with a friend, but she's busy. I'm getting picked up."

"Oh," he said, glancing nervously around the parking lot, unconsciously rubbing his arm with his palm, as if cold. "Maybe I can drive you? Save you waiting?"

John hadn't expected him to come running back so easily. Usually, with guys like him, it took a while — a few weeks, or even months, of self-loathing and avoidance in public until they finally capitulated and hit him up again.

"I'm good. I shouldn't be here much longer."

Simon nodded, eyes cast down to his feet as he shuffled awkwardly.

"Would you uhh… do you wanna maybe go on a date some time?"

John felt something inside of himself convulse — an involuntary response to the furtive innocence in Simon's voice, a pang of sympathy burning just behind his lungs. He exhaled slowly, face twisted into a grimace.

"I'm sorry, Simon. That's not… I don't really do dates. If you wanna hang out, or have sex, or whatever, I can, but I don't do boyfriends. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," he said, sounding like it was anything but, "I understand."

"Look. Do you know about the apps, at all?"

Simon looked up to him from where his eyes were boring holes into the ground, his expression as clear a response as any.

"So, you can download these apps, and they show you other gay guys in the area, and you can talk to them and stuff."

"Like Tinder?"

"Yeah, but it's a little less… _respectable_ , I guess. Most guys are just on there for sex, but maybe you could find someone. Just, like, you don't have to be alone, you know. There's guys out there."

"But won't people see my face? I don't wanna be out, just yet."

"You don't have to, there's lots of guys who don't."

He was about to say more, but he saw Bobby pulling up over Simon's shoulder. He parked a few spots behind, his face watching Simon, his expression blank, his arm stretched over behind the headrest of the passenger seat, his other hand on the steering wheel, muscles pulled taut. Simon noticed John's lapse in attention, and turned to follow his gaze, spying Bobby. He returned to John, a slight grin forming on his lips. John shook his head.

"Don't say it. He's just a friend."

"Right. Well," he added, clapping John on the shoulder, his pantomime of bravado returning as they now had an audience, "I'll see you around. Maybe on the apps, hmm?"

He drove off, John throwing Bobby a wave, which he returned, expression unchanging. He made his way over, sliding in beside him, Bobby's arm still raised behind his shoulders in a phantom embrace.

"Who was that?"

"Simon."

Bobby nodded.

"He's a football guy, right?"

"Yeah," John replied, conscious that Bobby still hadn't started the car, that his voice still sounded hard in his throat, "You know him?"

"No," he shook his head, "I've just seen him at games. Was he giving you trouble?"

There it was, John thought to himself. 

"Please drop the overprotective boyfriend crap, Bobby, it doesn't suit you."

Bobby's jaw tightened — that was the wrong thing to say.

"Excuse me?"

"C'mon, Bobby. He was just talking to me."

"It looked like he was giving you shit! Didn't you tell me those guys were all terrible to you?"

"Didn't _you_ tell me that not all football guys are assholes like that?"

Bobby sighed in defeat, finally starting up the car, the engine's toothless growl the only sound between them.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just saw him there and I remembered what you said about them and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, alright?"

John brought a hand to his thigh, squeezing once, the argument dissipating just as quickly as it began.

"I know. Thank you for looking out for me."

"So what _did_ he want? You looked like you weren't too excited about it, whatever it was."

“Ugh, it’s a long story.”

Bobby gestured broadly at the road in front of them.

“We’ve got time.”

John relayed his and Simon’s interactions — his nervous approach, his protracted coming out, their time in the backseat of his car. Bobby nodded along, face set as if he were concentrating on the road, which John knew he wasn’t.

“So he got clingy at the end, huh?” he asked, humour finally creeping into his tone.

John rolled his eyes at the memory of it, the feeling of Simon holding on to him as if he would float away into the ether at a moment's notice.

“You better believe it. I honestly thought he was gonna cry.”

“And so what did he want today? Trying to get another ride on the pony?”

John turned, eyes trained on the side of Bobby’s head, as if he might be able to cause him to burst into flames by sheer force of will.

“Please don’t ever say it like that again, Bobby — I almost threw up in my fucking mouth. And besides, if anything, _he_ was the pony — his thing was huge.”

“How big is huge?”

John held his palms apart from one another in a rough approximation of Simon’s size, Bobby whistling gently as he took it in.

“ _Je_ -sus… and you took it all?”

“I didn’t really have a choice once he started pushing my head down on it with his hand on my neck.”

He watched Bobby adjust himself in his jeans, catching his eye at the next red light.

“You wanna maybe take care of this for me?”

John folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

“Absolutely not, Drake, we’re going for food. Besides, road head is so played out, have a little more imagination."

“C’mon! Why even bother going, the girls aren’t even coming! Just come to my house, we can eat there and then go fool around.”

He punctuated his words by grinding the heel of his palm into himself, watching John watch him, oblivious to the light changing. John shook his head again, decision already made.

“I want my cheesy fries Bobby, and that’s that.”

“Fine, but you’re paying, for both of us.”

John made to protest, but Bobby cut him off with a hand on his crotch and a tight squeeze.

“I’ll pay you back once we get back to mine.”

John swallowed his retort, breathing heavily through his nose.

“You’re a menace.”

Bobby leaned over to kiss him, John wondering quietly how in the hell he managed to pass his driving test.

* * *

Later that day, John and Bobby laid together beneath his sheets, the melding heat of their bare skin leaving it unclear where one ended and the other began. Bobby had dragged him upstairs as soon as they had gotten home from the diner, his hands moving with a single minded purpose, his mouth desperate against John's own. It had been a long time, relatively — summer's weekly meetings together having been interrupted by the demanding schedules of senior year. Bobby had been keen to feel John inside of him again, and had made his delight known in the sounds he had made, in his bright smile and easy eyes as he rocked the two of them to a quick release.

Bobby laid at John's side after, his arm across his chest, his leg pulled up over both of John's, his face in the crook of his neck. They had fallen asleep together, their fingers interlaced where they rested over John's heart, his lips at Bobby's forehead, murmuring to him gently as sleep had claimed them. Waking, sweaty and slightly confused — as all good naps left you — they continued their embrace, unwilling to part after their time apart. Bobby kissed at John's neck as they roused, trailing his lips from his throat to his mouth, breathing his name softly, eyes closed.

"I missed you. Is that bad?"

John laughed, a nervous, embarrassed sound.

"I missed you too, Bobby. Like not to be gross but these Grindr guys are not the same."

Bobby laughed against him, his stomach rising and falling against John's side, comfortable and easy.

"I'm a Grindr guy, aren't I?"

"Not anymore," John replied, his tone a little softer, a little less humourous than he had intended.

"See, you're so nice to me and then you wonder why I'm all protective of you when some little DL linebacker thinks he can steal you away from me!"

"He asked me on a date," John said suddenly, eyes on the ceiling, Bobby's laughter stilling. "Today, before you picked me up. That's what he was asking me."

"What'd you say?"

"I told him I don't date. He seemed pretty disappointed, which was weird-"

"Why is that weird? You're a good guy. He'd be lucky!"

John rolled his eyes, brushing Bobby's hair away from his forehead, shuffling the strands messily between his fingers.

"Yeah, yeah. Still, I said no, but I explained to him about Grindr, and stuff. He didn't seem to know anything about it, which was strange. You'd think even the really really DL guys know about that these days. He got all brave once you showed up, said he'd maybe see me on the apps, as he left. I think he thought you might have been my boyfriend, or something close enough. I think he was showing off."

"Funny you should say that," Bobby said, shifting onto his back, reversing their positions as he pulled John over to cuddle into his side, "I always treated my hookups like temporary boyfriends."

John's face crinkled in confusion where it was pressed against Bobby's cheek, his brow furrowed at his sudden admission.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, if I'm with a guy for the night, for as long as we're together, I'm his boyfriend. You know? Like I treat him like I would if I were in love with him and this were just another night with my man."

"Right," John nodded.

"It's just cause… like I just want people to feel happy, you understand? Sex is supposed to be fun! It's supposed to be enjoyable. You're supposed to be connected to the person and stuff… So yeah, I treat them the way I would if we had been together for years, as if he was the only man in the world I gave a shit about. Is that weird?"

John shrugged.

"Yeah, it is, but I don't think it's bad. I think it's really sweet of you. I never knew you were that kind of guy."

"I just want people to feel special."

John stretched to kiss his forehead, Bobby grinning his same, heart-shattering grin.

"You're such a nutcase. These guys don't deserve you."

They were quiet then, rising at one point to dress, as Bobby's parents would soon arrive home. They continued to cuddle however, Bobby curled up behind John, arms around his chest, legs intertwined, letting the evening drift into night as they let some inoffensive Netflix show wash over them. At one point, John twisted in Bobby's arms, bringing their mouths together in a slow kiss, Bobby's hands shifting to bracket his waist, the two of them pressed neatly together. John let his hands roam across his chest, up his arms, down his back, taking in the feeling of him beneath his palms, the sharpness of his hips, of his shoulders, such a contrast to Simon. Somewhere in his stomach, something swelled, emerging from him in a deep sigh against Bobby's mouth. 

"Alright," he said, breaking their kiss, "Alright. I gotta go home, buddy. Frances is gonna wonder where the hell I am."

Bobby pouted, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

"Five more minutes, please?"

John gave into him, as he knew he would, as Bobby knew he would, the two of them losing another expanse of time to the swirling vortex of lust in the pit of their stomachs. Eventually he pulled himself away again, silencing Bobby's protest — his inevitable invitation to sleep over — with a kiss to the tip of his nose. Bobby conceded, accepting his defeat with another one of his pouts, finally allowing John to stand and right himself in Bobby's mirror, adjusting his clothes such that they didn't look like they had been rumpled by overeager hands. Satisfied, John stood, waiting for Bobby to extricate himself from the covers which had become tangled around them, for him to grab his car keys.

Bobby dropped him off outside of his house, his forlorn face following John as he made his way up his driveway, waving him off as he pulled away.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket as Bobby turned down the road, almost laughing out loud as he saw it.

_:(_

He shook his head, pushing his way inside the front door, heading to the kitchen where Frances sat, halfway through her dinner.

"Hi, sorry, time got away from us a little."

Frances swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti, her face thoughtful. She nodded at the seat across from her, an invitation for John to sit, the universal signal for 'I want to talk to you'. He took his spot, his fingers tight around his phone, as if it could shield him from whatever was about to be said.

"Can I ask you something? It's a little personal, so if you don't want to say, it's alright."

He nodded.

"Sure."

"Are you and Bobby dating?"

"No. We're just friends. Close, but no, not dating."

"You're having sex though, right?"

She spoke as he was halfway through taking a breath, his throat closing around it in surprise.

"Uhh…"

"John, come on. I'm not an idiot. I know you're on those apps. I watch TV, I know what kids like you are up to."

"Kids like me?"

"Gays. What do you want me to say? 'Queer youth'? I know what Grindr is, John — I watch TV."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Hey! Language."

"Sorry, sorry. Bit of a shock, you can imagine, your mom telling you she knows all about your private life because she watched the last season of 13 Reasons Why, or whatever."

Frances shrugged.

"It's a good show, little off the rails recently, but it's fine."

"I'm sure," he replied, a slight pause as he prepared himself to answer, "Yeah, Bobby and I are having sex."

"Often?"

"It was, until school started."

"And you're being safe?"

"Of course."

"Alright," she said, her tone suggesting that the subject had been dropped.

"Yeah."

"He's a nice kid. Is he good to you?"

"Above and beyond, you might say."

"Do you want to date him?"

"No. Not now, anyway. Maybe in five years, if he's still around. Who knows?"

"Does he want to date you?"

"You're asking the wrong person."

She chewed slowly on another mouthful, her face contemplative.

"Be careful of his feelings, John. I know you kids like to play at relationships as if they don't mean anything, but you could really hurt someone if you make the wrong move."

He swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding.

"I know. He's my friend. I like him a lot. I don't want to ruin what I have with him."

"You won't, if you're careful. I know that, at least."

Their conversation ended there, Frances waving him off to his room, where he laid for some time in silence, deep in thought about what they had said.

Bobby was his friend, and he loved him as much as he loved Jean, as much as he loved Ororo. 

Bobby was a sweet boy, with a heart far too big for one person to hold.

John scrubbed a hand over his face in the near-dark, firing off a simple text to Bobby.

_:)_


	5. Silver Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a phone call he wasn't expecting,

October, Senior Year

"Where the fuck are these two?"

Ororo and Jean sat together in Ororo's living room, huddled around their weekly schedules which had been spread across the coffee table, for the express purpose of the four of them sitting down to divine which slivers of time they could share together each week. Senior year had been taking a lot out of the four of them — Bobby having his job, as well as swim practice, Ororo's grandmother slowly getting worse in the hospital, the resulting effects on her father leaving her to pick up some of the slack which he begrudgingly allowed her to take care of. Jean had been seeing a boy, although she refused to tell any of them who he was or what he looked like.

"It's not that serious yet, I don't need him to meet any of you, I wanna see his dick at least once before I let any of you mess it up for me," she had said, after their ceaseless prodding one night at her house, the four of them spread across two couches, a horror movie playing mostly unwatched by all but Bobby, who had been enraptured, periodically hiding his face in John's neck whenever someone got murdered, which was often.

"Don't let your dad hear that, you'll end up in a chastity belt!" Bobby had warned, Jean's father's overprotective nature well known among the men in her orbit. It was only upon the revelation that Bobby and John were both gay that he relented and allowed her to have male friends over while her parents were out.

"She's probably afraid John is gonna try and convert him like he did with that Simon kid."

John rolled his eyes.

"Anything to keep them away from you, Ororo. Simon's your type, too."

"My type?" she asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," he replied, listing Simon's features off on his fingers, "He's tall, muscular, he plays football and, most of all, he's got a huge dick."

Ororo had made a face of disgust as she was laughed at, Bobby practically in hysterics, his body apparently releasing some of the tension that the movie had built up. As he wiped his tears away, Ororo had spoken, swallowing her mild rage, a vein throbbing in her neck.

"I really hate all of you. I'd tell you to get out but this isn't my house, for once."

Back in Ororo's living room once more, Jean looked up from her phone to see John approaching, pushing inside the door they had left unlocked for him, looking breathless, red in the face. He made his way over, face apologetic, palms raised.

"Hi, hi, sorry I'm late. I was blowing a guy and he was taking forever to finish."

"You're disgusting," Jean said, gesturing for him to sit.

Before either could probe him further, Bobby followed suit, looking equally disheveled, car keys in his hand, jogging lightly into the room in his sweats. Ororo, Jean and John all shared a look, John’s face breaking out in a devilish grin at their plain exasperation. Bobby flopped onto the couch, practically launching John into the air, a glare thrown his way as he settled, met by his stuck-out tongue. 

"Sorry we were late — got caught up."

"Did you bring your school shit?" Ororo asked, once they were all settled.

"Mine's on my phone, hold on," John replied, fishing it out of his pocket as Bobby spread his — considerably more rumpled and stained copy — across the table. 

"So, Monday through Friday after class, what are we looking at?"

"I can't do Wednesdays, I've got work," Bobby volunteered, the four of them marking that off of their lists.

"Tuesdays I've got stuff with the boy, but I can reschedule with him if I feel like, so we've got that."

"Thursday and Friday, I'm out," Ororo said, "I've got stuff with Dad those days."

They all nodded, steering clear of the lingering presence of her dying grandmother, who hovered just at the edge of all of their thoughts. Bobby nudged John, their knees knocking together, gesturing at his phone.

"You're awful quiet. You not got anything?"

He shrugged, expression hardening somewhat.

"I don't do much. I go to class, I come home, I write. I'm free whenever you guys are."

"Right," Jean said, cutting straight through the slightly dour atmosphere which had blanketed their conversation, tossing her fiery hair over her shoulder as she tapped at her sheet. "we're looking at Mondays after class for all four of us, and then Fridays if we want to leave out this loser."

She punctuated her thoughts with a nod jabbed in Ororo's direction, who made a mocking face right back at her.

"Well why not this," John countered, leaning forwards, shoulder glancing Bobby's as he pointed at Tuesday's blacked-out spot, "You can move your stuff with your man to Friday, and then we can do Mondays and Tuesdays."

Jean scratched at her head, weighing up his proposition.

"I guess… I dunno, I think he has practice on Fridays. But I guess I can just meet him after, it's not like we do a whole lot anyway. Plus it might piss my parents off if I stay out later than they expect with a boy."

Ororo shook her head.

"Why is it always the white kids with intact families who have money who wanna act out? Like literally who hurt you?"

John butted in, before Ororo and Jean could begin one of their back and forths.

"Right, so you get on to him about that and we can come back to that one."

"Circle back," Bobby offered, "Touch base, put a pin in it."

"So where does that leave us with weekends?" Ororo said, chewing on her nail.

John raised his hands, equally as unoccupied then as he was during the week.

"I told the boy he could have Saturdays with me, but he's not always free, so like if we plan in advance I can do them. Sundays I'm good."

Bobby shrugged.

"I work both days, but I can hang out after, I guess. I'm usually the closer on Saturday though, so there's not much to do after."

He and John shared a glance as the girls leaned down to mark off their little parcels of time on their schedules. Bobby hadn't exactly been lying — he did in fact often close on Saturday nights at the pool. What he had omitted was his and John's agreement to leave Saturday evenings for each other, to give themselves more regularity in their hookups, to avoid the rushed entanglement they had found themselves in earlier that day. It didn't seem prudent to bring it up in front of the girls — likely as it was to draw uncomfortable questions about the nature of their closeness, their obvious desire to see one another so regularly. In truth, they were questions that neither John nor Bobby felt comfortable answering either, and so they had quietly left it to the wayside.

Their administrative work finished, the four of them killed time until it was time to leave, evening arriving with haste as the sun dipped lower earlier as the seasons wore on.

Bobby dropped John at his house, their drive short, but pleasant. They barely spoke, John worn out from seeing his friends, ready to crawl into his cave and hide until he was ready for more human interaction. To his credit, Bobby seemed to pick up on John's idiosyncrasies quickly, not becoming offended when he was asked to leave before John started fidgeting and getting cranky. 

_ Accommodating,  _ that was the word one would use to describe him.

John left him with a kiss, an unconscious movement across the center console, his lips against Bobby's cheek before either of them knew what was happening. He pulled away, face red, and left to the sound of Bobby's laughter chasing him up his driveway.

Lying in his bed later that week, John found himself scrolling through his friends’ social media feeds.

It had begun as a search for Jean's mystery man, seeking out his presence somewhere in her myriad pictures and stories — a laugh in the background of a video, the shadow of his body in a photo, something, anything. It was fruitless. Either she had scrubbed all evidence of him from any media before she posted it, or else she had made him up. He was probably on private — one of those straight men's accounts where they posted exactly once a month and had less than one hundred followers. That was the dream, John thought, a man who had no interest in social media.

Disappointed, he meandered elsewhere, scrolling once again through Bobby's posts, his Instagram grid a favoured spot of John's whenever he was bored enough to log on to the app. There was a slight ritual involved — namely the immediate scroll to a post from March of the previous year. Bobby stood in his bathroom, clad only in his underwear, which were pulled down on one side to expose his leg, his gargantuan thigh flexed in high definition on the screen, all the better to observe the nasty bruise that coloured his skin a sickly shade of purple-yellow. His caption was simple, a single word —  _ Owie  _ — which never failed to make John smile. He had told him the story of it, one night when they were together. It was simple — he had lost his footing at the poolside, tumbling into the water, his leg the last thing to go as it whacked off the pool edge on his way down. It had been worse than it looked, or so he had said, yet he had still asked if John had wanted to 'kiss it better', despite it having healed almost a year prior at that point. And, John was all too happy to oblige him. He was fond of Bobby's legs, a fact which hadn't eluded the other man's notice. In fact, there was another picture — much nearer to the top, from late that summer, taken at a friend's party — Bobby sitting on a couch, legs splayed wide to accommodate John, who sat on the floor with his back to the seat, one arm wrapped around Bobby's calf, two wide smiles thrown at the camera.

He swiped out and into the one which followed, a snap from Bobby's birthday, right at the end of summer, the last blazing days of August. They had driven to the lake — more of a large pond, in John's summation — the four of them spending the day there. Although it had been Bobby's day — a fact he had been sure to reiterate loudly and often — John had enjoyed himself far more than he had expected, the heat baking his brain into a soft mush, emotions stirred by the endless laughter and unbroken smiles of his friends. The picture wasn't supposed to be candid — Ororo had asked he and Bobby to stand together so she could get a shot of them both, as they had each done in turn, posing with the birthday boy. Bobby had thrown an arm around John's shoulders, pulling him so they stood close, his smile wide as their heads had knocked together. John had surprised him, grabbing at his jaw with both hands, pulling him in to stamp a kiss on his cheek, Bobby's laughter audible through John's phone screen.

Bobby's feed was full of affection, arms around the broad shoulders of his friends, lips on cheeks, on foreheads. His smile was infectious, spreading across the faces of his fellows, his remaining the brightest of all.

He seemed to shy away from vanity, lacking the usual set of pictures in his underwear which John had grown accustomed to on most gay men's pages. Bobby seemed, outwardly at least, to be on the modest side, very rarely showing skin, or emphasizing muscle. Such a contrast it was to the Bobby that John knew in private, his appetite which approached insatiable, the ease with which he allowed himself to be naked. Often, he would remain unclothed long after they had been intimate, even after John had long since dressed, no matter how half-heartedly. John didn't complain. He enjoyed trailing his fingers along Bobby's skin, enjoyed the feeling of what little body hair he had as it rose under John's gentle touch. 

Mostly, he enjoyed being held by Bobby, and holding him in return.

He searched himself for the feeling that would let him know that he was in too deep — the swooping drop in his stomach, the blooming heat in the center of his chest, the tingling in his hand, right where his thumb became his wrist. 

There was nothing.

Nothing but a calm fuzz in his brain, distantly reminiscent of a high. 

He sent the picture of he and Bobby at the lake to him, following it with a short text.

_ We need to do this again _

Bobby didn't take long to reply, evidently equally as bored, eyes glued to his own phone.

_ Absolutely !!! _

_ That was the best birthday I've ever had _

_ All cuz of you guys :) _

John chuckled to himself, a slight lump forming in his throat as he swiped away from Bobby's page and back into his own. That was where his favorite picture sat — the one he returned to whenever he felt lonely, whenever he needed to be reminded that yes, in fact, there were people who enjoyed his company and who wanted to be around him. 

It was another shot from the lake at Bobby's birthday. He remembered the moment well — the four of them had been swimming, having finally convinced John to join them in the water. Jean had gotten out to answer her phone — her mom calling her to chatter about their aunt's dog's kidney surgery, oblivious to the fact that Jean was otherwise occupied. After getting her mother off of the line, she had turned to take a picture of them, and something in her phone must have been working overtime because, to John at least, the resulting picture looked staged, professionally shot.

It was the first moments of the evening, the sun dipping just far enough below the trees that it no longer blinded them whenever they looked in the wrong direction. The sky was something out of a painting — powder blue fading into yellow as the cigar-shaped clouds moved inexorably towards the west. Bobby had his back to the camera, droplets of water trailing from his hair, down his neck and across his sunburned shoulders. John was suckered to his front, his legs, unseen under the waterline, wrapped around Bobby's waist, his arms stretched around the breadth of his shoulders, his face pressed into Bobby's neck, his own hair in the process of being slicked back by Bobby's broad palm. He was looking at the camera, his eyes hooded, a smile playing at the edges of his lips where they were clamped on Bobby's skin, right where his shoulder became his neck. He had left a bruise that day, Bobby incredulous, calling John out on his hypocrisy. He had let him bite a mark into the flesh of his ass as repayment, the next time they were together. That seemed to settle him, which was good news, as it had taken almost two weeks to disappear.

In the moment it had felt natural, the impulse to cling to Bobby, to float gently as one in the water, their voices low, Bobby's hands gentle as they supported his weight. They had been friends for only a little while at that point, yet the three of them had been thoroughly bowled over by how easily Bobby had integrated with them, how quick he was to pick up on their jokes, their quirks, their shared histories. And John, naturally, was the closest to him of all. Yet, their embrace hadn't felt like a prelude to sex — not least of all for their friends' presence, which would have put a stop to anything untoward. 

It was just fun, just two people sharing in closeness, enjoying the sensation of two bodies meeting skin to skin.

Beneath the photo, John had placed a caption — short, as all of his were — which read:

_ Silver cross. _

Named for Bobby's chain which he wore whenever he remembered to put it on in the morning, a silver plated chain, Jesus hanging on the cross right above his heart. It was visible in the photo, glinting brightly in the sunlight, Jesus swinging between Bobby's shoulder blades where the links had shifted around in the water.

Under the caption were the comments — few and far between, although John had many followers who had found him through his linked account on the apps, and had followed him as some sort of occulted signal of interest, unwilling to actually brave a hello. One in particular stood out to him — Bobby's. Two of them, in short succession, threaded together with not even a minute apart.

_ We look like a couple here _

_ A couple of besties! _

John laughed whenever he saw it, Bobby already by that point making light of what they were sure other people said about them whenever they were seen together.

Sure enough, there was a picture taken not long after the one at the lake, John and Bobby at a friend's house party — some lukewarm teenage gathering, sans alcohol, sans entertainment unless one was into hearing about the latest sports news or standing awkwardly around as if waiting for something to happen.

He and Bobby were in the background of the photo, John in his lap, their heads together as they made their own fun. It had been sent to Bobby by whichever friend had taken it, and he had sent it to John, the two of them laughing embarrassedly over their unabashed distaste for that particular party, bored enough to risk making out in a room full of people both of them knew.

Not that either of them cared who saw.

Not that anyone who was there cared what they did.

John turned onto his side, contemplating what Frances had said to him the other night, warning him against hurting Bobby's feelings, or his own.

He tapped at his phone, sending off a final message to him, before sleep claimed him.

_ I'm heading off. _

_ Still on for tomorrow? _

He waited for Bobby's reply, which came quickly as always.

_ Wouldn't miss it for the world  _ 😉

_ G’night Johnny _

_ Dream about me _

* * *

He woke the next morning panting, chasing the frayed threads of his dream as they slipped out of his head and out into the world. He had dreamed of Bobby, as it transpired — left only with the memory of their bodies entwined, his sheets left soaked in sweat where he had tossed in the night. 

It was Saturday, which meant he had the house to himself, his aunt having set off for work hours ago, the growl of their car's engine having roused him halfway out of his sleep, enough to groan and roll over once again. He moved around the kitchen lazily, revelling in the quiet atmosphere of the house, the stillness of the morning. 

He was halfway through his pancakes when the phone rang. He watched as if it were a live bomb, each ring shrilling in his ears insistently. He didn't bother picking up the call — why else would they bother having an answering machine, if not for that express purpose? Eventually, the rings came to an abrupt halt, replaced by the singular chime of the message recorder.

His breath caught in his throat as the voice on the other end of the line came through. He sounded the same, which was unsurprising. 

John hadn't seen him in what was approaching three years.

Being unceremoniously thrown out of his home by his father hadn't exactly been on John's bingo card for the misfortunes in his life, but perhaps it could have occupied the Free Space, given the likelihood. The narrative had effectively laid itself in full at their feet — beginning with his mother's illness, her gradual worsening until her body had given up entirely, his father's subsequent drinking, which left him rowdy and belligerent. John hadn't been kind to him, either. The loss of his mother hadn't so much devastated him as it had left him adrift, completely detached from reality. The inevitable had happened — his grades had plummeted, his attitude at school and at home had soured, he took up smoking. The fight had been the last straw. Some kid in John's class had, for some unfathomable reason, thought it would be funny to make fun of his dead mother, to his face, in the middle of the hallway on Monday morning. John had sent him to the hospital — a fractured jaw and a severe concussion from the impact of John's fist, of the metal door of his locker, of the tiled ground of the hallway. It would have more than likely been worse, even fatal, had John not been pulled off of him by three people, his arms still grasping at air, his face twisted into a frenzied snarl. As dictated by all universal laws of poetics, the hospital the kid was sent to had been the one John's mother had died in, the perfect coda to that particular arc of his narrative. His father had been called in, the situation explained, the verdict cast down — John was expelled, as per the school's policy on violence.

The car ride home had been entirely silent, neither he nor his father speaking. Once they arrived home, he was directed upstairs, his father making arrangements with Frances to have him picked up. There had been shouting, audible from his room. He hadn't cried, hadn't shouted himself, hadn't torn his room apart. Instead, he had packed quietly, what possessions he truly cared about tucked in around his clothes as he prepared to leave.

Met by Frances' incandescent rage as she had pulled up — the torrent of her fury directed at his father, beating up against the stone wall of his taciturn conviction — John had been largely calm, shepherding his bags and boxes into the trunk of her car silently, even as their neighbors began to emerge out onto their lawns to gawk at the spectacle.

Frances had taken him in — the fire in her eyes, in her voice, dissipating in a moment as her gaze met his — not fifteen years old, already shattered, curling in on himself like a wilted flower.

She had taken him home, the home in which he now sat, listening to the voice of his memory crackle down the line.

_ "It's me. Do you need anything extra this month for him, for school? Let me know. Bye." _

He swallowed his mouthful of food, his sense of taste fleeing him, leaving the chunk of mostly-chewed pancake feeling like wet cement as it slithered down his throat. He dropped his fork to his plate, no longer hungry, carting it over to the trash. He washed his dishes on autopilot, finding himself staring off into the middle distance as he rubbed the washcloth in the same slow circle over and over again, long after the plate was clean.

Feeling unmoored, he drifted back upstairs to his room, sliding back under his covers, where he would remain, watching the square of sunlight working its way across his wall as the morning passed into afternoon. His chest was tight, a rope twisted and knotted around his heart and lungs, his stomach roiling, acid splashing up the back of his throat. He shifted to his back, hoping it would alleviate the pressure. Laying flat, he found his mind sinking into his body, his sense of touch departing as had his sense of taste some time earlier. His limbs felt strange — unbearably heavy, impossible to lift, yet also foreign to him, as if he were merely occupying his body on a temporary basis, and the owner was returning. He wondered absently if his other senses would desert him in the same way, and in what order, if so.

His phone buzzed, cutting through his fugue, enough to bring his attention to the screen, Bobby's name emblazoned across his lock screen.

_ Lumchtime :) _

Something in his typo — almost too cute to be unintentional — pierced through the center of John's chest, seeping liquid warmth through his body, enough to get him to pick up his phone, to respond to Bobby.

_ Can I call you? _

It took Bobby a few minutes to respond, John staring mostly unblinking at his screen, his eyes beginning to itch.

_ Uhh _

_ Sure _

_ Everything okay? _

_ Not really _

_ Just wanna talk for a little bit _

_ :( _

_ Lemme finish my sandwich, I'll call you _

It didn't take long for the call to come through, Bobby's anxious voice coming down the line.

_ "What's up, Johnny?" _

He smiled, in spite of himself, in spite of the hollowness in his chest, the buzzing in his head.

"Hi, Bobby. I just wanted to hear you, buddy, that's all."

_ "You don't sound okay… what's going on, John? C'mon." _

"I just… it's a long story Bobby," he said, a shuddering sigh fluttering the fabric of his comforter, "What time are you done with work, again?"

_ "Seven." _

"Are you closing up?"

_ "No." _

John took a deep breath, attempting to breathe himself calm.

"Do you think you could maybe ask to leave a little early? Maybe we could go for a drive."

_ "If I do, will you tell me what's going on? Cuz I'm kinda freaked out, at the moment." _

"Hey, I'm sorry — I didn't wanna scare you. I'm not in danger, or anything. I just need a hug and somewhere warm to sit, and you're my first choice, in that regard."

He had fought his voice to some semblance of normality, but Bobby remained unconvinced, his tone still wary.

_ "Course. I'll see what I can do about getting away early, but otherwise I'll see you this evening, okay? I'll come pick you up and we can go sit somewhere quiet and talk, alright?" _

"Thanks, Bobby," he said, voice faltering into a half-formed sob as he went on, "You're my best friend, you know that? Don't tell the other two I said that, but you are."

_ "Oh Johnny, don't cry, c'mon buddy. If you need me now I'll come, I promise. Just say it." _

It took a lot out of him not to give in, to beg Bobby to come there and then, to sweep him into his arms and away from the mess in his brain, but he remained firm.

"I'm good, I'm good. Maybe break a few road rules on your way over later — wouldn't be your first time."

Bobby laughed finally, tinkling and melodic in John's ear. He felt something loosen in his chest, breaths coming easier, hand unclenching where it had become balled in his sweatshirt.

_ "Wow. I'll have you know I'm a great driver." _

"For NASCAR, maybe."

Bobby laughed again, the sound drawing John's mind down once again from where it floated around his ceiling fan, lowering his consciousness back into his body once more.

_ "Listen,"  _ Bobby said, what little humour which had crept into his tone falling away into something more serious,  _ "My break's almost over, I'm gonna have to go soon. Are you sure you don't need me to come over right now? You promise?" _

"I'm not gonna say no to that ever, Bobby, but I'll be fine. I promise."

_ "Okay,"  _ he said finally,  _ "I'll see you tonight." _

"Thanks, Bobby. I don't know what I'd do without you — probably call Jean, now that I think of it."

_ "Any time,"  _ he replied, sounding as though he truly meant it.

Frances arrived home a couple of hours later. There was still another little while until Bobby would make his way down — having convinced his manager that he had to watch his little brother on short notice. Which wasn't entirely untrue — he was, in effect, going to be babysitting.

John had moved to his window by that point — fighting his body's desire to lie flat on his side and go to sleep by sitting himself upright in his chair, watching the world go by. Every so often, a few yellow leaves would float by on the breeze, carried off the branches of the tree in their yard. It was atmospheric, to say the least. He watched Frances' car as she pulled into the driveway, listening to the sound of the engine as it abruptly cut out. He could hear the front door open, hear her calling to him — a call he left unanswered. He imagined her movements as she came in — several long strides from the door into the kitchen, where she would dump her bag on the table with an exhausted sigh, a turn to the fridge to unearth her flask, her eye catching on the red light of the answering machine, her finger poised to press the button. 

He could hear vaguely the sound of the phone mechanism, the prerecorded voice announcing their message, followed by a lower, human voice — his father's. It was short, he knew, as he recounted the statement in his head, matching it to the time it would surely take for her to listen. After that there was a beat of silence, followed by her feet climbing the stairs, the tensing of his body in anticipation of her apologetic face peering around his door. Sure enough, she knocked furtively, John calling out for her to come in. Her face seemed to sag, features pulled down by the phantom weight of John's father's presence.

"Did you…"

"Yeah, I heard it."

He watched pain crease across her face, her eyes shutting.

"I'm sorry." Her tone was short, angry with herself at failing to protect him. 

"Don't be."

"Do you need a hug?"

He shook his head.

"I've got a hug machine coming in a couple of hours. We're gonna take a drive and I'm gonna probably cry for a while in the backseat of his car."

"Bobby?"

"Who else?"

She nodded.

"Does he want to spend the night, maybe? Do  _ you  _ want him to spend the night? He can, it's not like I care, not like he hasn't before. I'm just asking so you know the offer is open."

John thought about it, considering his options.

"I'll ask him."

"Just, you know, be discreet, if you get up to anything."

"Please. We won't. Not while you're in the house. It makes me queasy to think about it."

They shared a brief smile, before she straightened, turning to leave.

"If you need anything, just call me, okay? At least until your boyfriend comes."

"He's not- Shut up."

He swivelled pointedly in his computer chair back around to the window, overshooting slightly, spinning almost back around to face her. Their eyes met as she smirked, the two of them breaking into light laughter as she moved on. He returned to his window proper, his tiny square of the world, and awaited Bobby's arrival.

It was dark by the time he pulled up, a pair of headlights flashing down John's street, coming to a halt at his mailbox. His phone buzzed next to him, Bobby's message lighting up on his screen.

_ I'm outside :) _

He stood, stretching his limbs which had grown stiff from his hunched position in his chair, and threw on fresh clothes. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused, glancing into the kitchen, Frances looking up from her plate.

"He's here. I'm gonna head out, alright?"

"Where are you going?"

"Just somewhere quiet. I'll try not to be out too late. He's got work tomorrow morning anyway, so…"

"Right," she nodded, "Remember to ask him if he wants to stay."

"I will." He paused as he made to leave, speaking to her as his back was turned, "I'm gonna be okay, please don't be too hard on yourself. You can't protect me from everything."

He heard her sigh, the gentle rustle of her clothes.

"I know. I love you."

"I love you too."

He made his way outside, Bobby lit up by the glow of his phone, his face shadowed as he looked up at John. He slid into the passenger seat, Bobby leaning in to kiss his cheek, pulling back to eye him cautiously, a grin on his face which didn't reach his wary eyes.

"Hey."

"Hey," John returned, aiming a smile in Bobby's direction, hoping to reassure him. Bobby brought his hand to his thigh, his grip firm, his palm warm, and looked John in the eye.

"Do you want to talk now, or do you wanna just be quiet and drive for a bit?"

John let loose a breath he had held in anticipation of having to explain himself, laughing slightly at how simply Bobby had laid out the path in front of him. He nodded.

"Just drive, please. You know where to go. We can talk then."

"Before we leave," he said, holding John's gaze, "Is this about me, or what we have going on? I just wanna know, so I can… prepare, I guess?"

John shook his head, holding Bobby's hand by the wrist to bring it to his lips. He kissed his knuckles, nuzzling his cheek into them, much as might a cat, had he owned one, had Frances given in to his numerous requests. They let the heat of John's face warm his fingers for a moment, before John spoke.

"Not at all. I just needed some company, and I'd rather it be yours."

Bobby smiled, leaning in to kiss John again, a little sweeter, a little less nervous than before. He smelled like chlorine, the scent following him wherever he went, as if it were permanently fused into his skin cells. It was pleasant, it reminded John of childhood days at the pool, learning to swim, the unparalleled sense of pure, blissful exhaustion that enveloped his body after a couple of hours in the water. He leaned heavily into Bobby, squeezing their fingers where he held them.

Bobby pulled away, the two of them settling finally into their seats, the car setting off down the street, towards Bobby's school, and the wooded area behind which had become one of their regular haunts.

He watched Bobby as he drove, eyes on his arms stretched out to grip the wheel, taking in the way his muscles flexed and shifted as he made turns. It was dark by that point, the two of them illuminated by other headlights, by the bright reds and greens of the traffic lights, sweeping across their faces as they passed under and beyond. Bobby's face was easy — perhaps concealing whatever nervous feelings still pricked at him, his expectations that John was about to pull their whole arrangement to a halt, perhaps even to confess to him that he wanted more. He met John's eye once at a red light, suddenly conscious of his staring, and smiled, eyes searching.

"All good?"

"All good."

He nodded, satisfied, and went on, not another word said between them.

Arriving at the spot, John was struck by how much more sinister it looked at that time of year, especially at that time of night. The clearing was entirely silent, the sounds of the highway muffled by the trees, the trees themselves reaching clawed branches towards the sky as if in warning. John shuddered as they got out of the car and quickly into the back, Bobby locking the doors for good measure. Settled then in the back seat, Bobby turned to him, splaying his arms wide in welcome. John chuckled softly, pulling himself in, swinging his legs over Bobby's, his own arms around his neck as Bobby moved to envelop his back and shoulders. John breathed a sigh as his body relaxed, Bobby kissing the crown of his head gently, shifting the two of them slightly into a more comfortable position. When he spoke, John took a moment to parse his words, so distracted as he was by the sheer sensation of his voice rumbling through him.

"You can take your time, but you gotta talk to me, Johnny. You promised."

He nodded, which had the dual effect of nuzzling his face closer into Bobby's neck, his breath warm against his skin.

"I will. Just another minute though."

Bobby hummed, running his fingers gently up John's spine, strumming along his vertebrae as if he were a musical instrument, drawing shivering patterns in the fabric of his sweater. John's own hand was pressed flat to Bobby's chest, splayed wide against the warmth, fingers playing absently with the indentation of his cross, beneath the fabric. His voice arose in the dark without prompting, without warning.

"My mom died, a few years back."

He felt Bobby tense around him, his body's innate desire to hold him tightly, the impulse to shield, to cover and envelop, as if that might draw the pain from out of his body and into Bobby’s where he could hold it instead.

"I'm so sorry, John."

"Me too. It was cancer — one of those ones that blindsides you. She had regular pain in her stomach — they thought it was IBS, or something like that. Didn't think anything of it. Then one day she goes in for a routine screening for something else, something preventable, and they find a lump. There's a scan — her insides are completely fucked, there's nothing they can do. Six months later she's on chemo, six months after that she's gone. It was over in less than a year."

He could feel tears forming, pooling over the rim of his eyes to run slowly down his cheeks, the almost ticklish wetness of it anchoring him to his body, drawing him back to continue speaking.

"Dad didn't take it well — and neither did I, I guess. He started drinking. He'd be quiet during the day, barely talked the whole time. Then, at night, you'd hear him crying. I didn't help. I caught an attitude. Started getting into fights at school. Grades went to hell. I put a lot of pressure on him."

"I'm sorry," Bobby said, for a want of anything else.

"I almost killed a kid, at school."

"What happened?" he asked, without judgement, which John thanked him silently for with a kiss to his neck, which was now becoming damp as John's tears continued.

"He made fun of my mom."

Bobby breathed a sigh, the hand he had brought to John's hair clenching imperceptibly around his anger.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Yeah. I broke his jaw. I think I would have killed him if we had been alone. The school expelled me then. Zero tolerance for violence, they said."

Bobby had begun to shake around him, the muscles in his body writhing in directionless rage.

"Dad picked me up. Told me to go to my room. I heard him on the phone to Frances. Could hear them yelling — him yelling, at least. I started packing my bags then. She came to get me, and took me home — where I live now. I haven't seen my Dad in three years. He doesn't want anything to do with me anymore."

"John-"

"Don't say you're sorry, please. You don't have to. I just needed to tell someone. No one else knows about this — not Jean, not Ororo. He called today — he sends Frances money every month for me. I was there when the answering machine caught him, I heard his voice. It just took me back, sent me running back to that house, to everything."

"I understand. What do you need me to do?"

He pulled away, watching Bobby watching him, and smiled. Bobby's face creased in confusion, a palm against John's cheek to steady him.

"Just be here. Just for tonight. Frances said you could stay, if you wanted, if you're allowed."

"I'll text my mom when we're about to head off," he said, nodding, bringing his forehead to rest against John's. They sat like that for some time, John's tears eventually stilling as he dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Bobby kissed out at him, pursed-lip pecks all over his face and hair, one strong hand rubbing circles into his back as his breathing regulated, as the tension in his body loosened, his neck falling slack against Bobby's shoulder, exhausted by his grief.

"Thank you, for doing this. I've never had someone around to care for me like this before."

"Yes you have," Bobby replied, a smirk playing across his face, "You just never let yourself ask for their help."

"Be that as it may," he said, batting at Bobby's head, "Thank you, still. I've cried in a lot of places but never in one as comfy as this."

"Glad I could be of service."

John's body convulsed in a shiver drawn out by Bobby's hand, sitting up slightly to check the time on his phone.

"C'mon, we should go home."

"Are you sure?"

John nodded, leaning over to kiss Bobby on the lips, their eyes closing with a sigh.

"Let's go. You gotta call your mom."

They disentangled themselves from one another, emerging out into the cold, John snaking quickly back into the front seat, watching Bobby through the window as he called his parents. He could hear snippets of Bobby's half of the conversation, muffled through the glass.

"He asked… going through something… don't… alone."

John felt his face flush at the idea of Bobby's parents thinking he was some sort of loser, desperately clinging to their son like a pathetic fainting maiden in a period drama. For one thing, John hadn't fainted in almost ten years, not since the doctors had finally diagnosed him with an iron deficiency and he had started buying vitamin supplements. Bobby got off the phone, the door alarm beeping as he slid in beside John once more, throwing him a thumbs up.

"All good — I don't know why that woman is committed to making every request feel like I'm asking her to shoot my brother in the face. All these questions — 'Do you have spare clothes? Are you gonna be on time for work? Are you gonna let him hit it raw?'" 

He laughed hard at John's reaction, his breath hitching in surprise, his head shaking.

"I really hate you."

Bobby took them both home, fishing his gym bag out of the trunk, John ushering him upstairs as he bade a rushed hello and goodnight to Frances on his way. John paused to speak with her, as she took in his red-rimmed eyes, grimy with dried tears.

"How are you?"

"He helped, a lot. I told him everything that happened — with mom, and after."

"I wasn't expecting that."

"Neither was I. He took it well — didn't make it about himself, which was nice."

"Was that what you were afraid of?"

"No," he said, with a sigh, "I was afraid it would have been too much."

"I understand that, it is pretty heavy to put on a friend but-"

"No. I thought it would have… you know, made things too real. Brought us too close together. Like you said — I have to be careful."

"Oh. And… did it? Did it bring you too close?"

He didn't answer, leaving her with only a shrug as he turned away and climbed the stairs, Bobby waiting for him, covers drawn back in invitation. He watched John change, averting his eyes out of unnecessary politeness as his underwear slid off, to be replaced by a loose pair of shorts and one of Bobby's shirts stolen from his gym bag. John watched him as he put it on. Bobby said nothing, but rolled his eyes. John crept up the bed to lie within his arms, tucking their feet together, allowing himself to be cocooned within the sheets and Bobby's arms, his breath ruffling the top of John's head.

"Thanks again, Bobby. For being so good about all of this. I didn't want to put all of my stuff onto you, but it felt like you were the only place I could turn."

"You and I both know that's not true — because either Jean or Ororo would have come running in a heartbeat. But I appreciate that I'm the one you asked. That means a lot to me, Johnny."

"It might be a little early for you, but I really need to go to sleep. Is that okay? What time are you in work at tomorrow morning?"

"I start at eleven."

"Alright, he nodded, shuffling himself closer into Bobby's embrace, "You can watch stuff on my laptop if you want-"

"It's fine, I've got my phone. It's all I ever do in bed anyway. Go to sleep."

Bobby ushered him closer with a kiss to his forehead, the press of his lips lingering long after they had departed, John easing into himself, into the weight of Bobby around him, the gentle light of his phone against his face, the regular beat of his heart.


	6. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Simon spend some time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, just a thought that occurred to me as I was posting this.  
> For anyone who doesn't know, this fic, up to chapter 9, was posted before Christmas, and hasn't been edited in the process of the reposting now. Just in case you have any questions about storylines, etc, lol.

October, Senior Year

John emerged out of the shower in a hurry, sliding over to his phone, hand dripping over the screen as he attempted to unlock it with his pruned fingers. Giving up, he jabbed in his passcode, swiping to his messages, where he had several from Ororo.

_ Hiiiiii bestie… I'm on my way _

Another from a few minutes later.

_ Bobby just drove past me at a red light _

_ If I get there and you're late bc he was tearing it up I'm gonna be pissed _

He rolled his eyes at that — as accurate as her assumption had been.

_ I'm outside _

Her final messages, from just a few seconds previous.

_ I'm so mad _

_ You two are like fucking rabbits, get it together _

He hit the call button, holding his phone slightly away from his dripping hair, listening to the tone. If he focused, he could almost hear her ringtone, blasting through her car and in through the shut windows of his house. She picked up shortly, the sound of her radio still blaring through the speaker.

_ "Good morning princess!"  _ she said, her voice exaggeratedly sweet,  _ "Did your man hit it good?" _

He scoffed down the line.

"First of all, bitch,  _ I  _ hit  _ him  _ , as it were. Just because he's got muscles doesn't mean he's the top. And secondly he's not my man."

_ "He's over there enough that he might as well be! You probably see more of his dick than his bedroom mirror." _

"Oh my god, whatever. Are you actually outside or did you do that thing where you say you're outside but you're twenty minutes away still in the drive-in line for Starbucks?"

He heard her grab at something in the car, the sound of ice rattling inside a plastic container, a slow, theatrical sip.

_ "No. There was no line. I'm in your driveway." _

He sighed.

"Fuck. Alright. I just got out of the shower. I'll be down in ten."

_ "Whatever. I guess I'll wait for you." _

"You're too kind."

She hung up, leaving him to contemplate his reflection, to eye the red spot on the side of his neck where Bobby had pressed his mouth while they were together. He had been lying — he had bottomed for him, the previous night's emotion having left him still a little vulnerable, in need of a strong pair of arms around his middle and a warm body pressed close to him beneath the sheets. Bobby hadn't seemed to mind, going off of the smile on his face as John had woken him up with his mouth swallowing down his steel-rod morning wood. It had been nice — Bobby had been gentle with him, his voice quiet in John's ear, breath on the back of his neck, John's fingers knotted in his hair.

It had felt an awful lot like making love, which had scared the two of them, a little. He could see it in Bobby's face as they finished up, righted themselves, as Bobby got dressed to leave for work. He trusted Bobby and himself to figure it out, to not let whatever uneasy distance had worked its way between them bloom into some ugly disaster-in-waiting. He had been encouraged by something in Bobby's expression as he had kissed John goodbye, some fleeting smile or glint of the eye that let him know that whatever silence had fallen wasn't to be permanent. 

At least, he hoped.

He shook himself free of his thoughts, conscious of Ororo waiting for him downstairs, and dried quickly. He emerged out onto his lawn, hair still mostly damp, clothes haphazard but presentable. He slid in beside her; her passing him a coffee of his own. He gawked at her, eyes wide.

"Oh my god, bestie, you didn't have to," he said, batting at her thigh, laughing as she rolled her eyes.

"I knew you'd cry about it if I didn't."

They pulled out of his driveway, Ororo mercifully lowering the volume of her music to levels safe for human ears. As they got onto the highway, she finally spoke.

"So, did Warren get back to you about today? Is he good to have us pick stuff up?"

John nodded.

"It's all figured out, yeah. I think he thought he was supposed to be busy this afternoon, but whatever he had fell through I guess, I dunno. He only ever texts me when he has my stuff or if he wants to fuck."

"Wait, did you fuck him too?" Ororo asked, glancing away from the road at him. 

His face creased in confusion, his brow furrowing.

"  _ Too  _ ? Did  _ you  _ fuck him?"

She looked at him as if he had asked her the colour of the sky, shrugging her shoulders.

"Duh… didn't I tell you about this? It was like six months ago."

"No, you never told me about this!" he replied, more scandalized than he had any right to be.

"I dunno what to tell you, I got there to get my stuff one night and he was telling me about how some dude he was talking to got cold feet when he found out Warren didn't… you know-"

"Have a dick?" John offered.

"Right. So he's telling me about it and he just turns to me and he's like, 'do you want to?' And, it turned out, I  _ did  _ want to."

"But you… you'd never been with a gi- anyone with those parts before, right?"

"No, but, you know… I've got them, so… it wasn't like rocket science. You fuck people with the same parts all the time, you know what to do."

He shrugged, nodding along.

"True, true. Although dicks are an easier medium to work in, in my experience. Did you ever do anything again?" he continued, after a pause while Ororo screeched at someone in another car for cutting them off — a stream of expletives leaving her mouth which would have made a sailor bite his tongue.

"Nah. He's not really my type, to tell you the truth. As we've established, I like them a little beefier than Warren."

"Not to mention the big ol' dicks."

"Not to mention, yeah."

The drive into the city was simple on that Sunday afternoon, with little traffic, allowing John to take in the scenery that he only very rarely saw. He didn't often get use of the car that he and Frances shared, with her more or less monopolizing it for her commute into work every morning at the city's university. As they came out of a tunnel, the city unfolding itself towards the sky before them, Ororo went on with her probing.

"So you and he fucked too, right?"

John exhaled deeply as he shifted in his seat, his leg having fallen asleep.

"Few times, yeah. Every so often whenever I'm picking stuff up he'll ask me if I'm down. I think he likes me — not in a romantic way or anything, I think I just understand what he wants."

"Which is?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, he likes to be pampered, taken care of, it's so funny," John replied, chuckling lightly at the memory of Warren's face — almost too perfect in its angles, his skin fair enough to match the straw gold of his hair, his voice pleading and soft.

"What do you mean, pampered? Did you run him a bath? Clip his toenails? Give him a facial? Well… actually, you might have done that last one."

John threw his head back in laughter, slapping at her arm.

"Shut up! No, no," he said, calming himself, stray giggles still rocking his body as he regained composure, "He just likes to be held and have his hair stroked and his forehead kissed and whatever. He told me to call him princess while we were doing it."

"Is that not… like, misgendering himself?"

"Girl, you're asking the wrong person."

The two of them shared a look, and shrugged. Ultimately, it was none of their business. They continued along the highway, Ororo now relying on her phone to get them to Warren's apartment. They had fallen quiet, John glancing at his phone, responding to a text from Bobby.

_ Thanks for this morning :) _

_ You're fun when you're clingy _

He snorted at the message, typing out a quick response before locking it again, Ororo meeting his eyes surreptitiously. He could hear her question before she spoke, the answer already prepared.

"Can I ask you about what you and he get up to?"

"Shoot."

Her tone was careful, her curiosity balanced against her desire to be delicate, not to trample over John's privacy.

"What is going on, between you, exactly? Sorry to be nosy — and you don't have to say if you don't want to — but I'm just curious. You two are so close — and I mean  _ close  _ — but like, you're not dating officially, and you don't seem to want to."

"Yeah, it's complicated," John said with a sigh, straightening himself in his seat. "I guess neither of us really know what it is, to be honest. We're close, yeah. He wasn't supposed to be over last night — I had some personal stuff come up and I needed somewhere to go cry and have someone rub my neck while I did it."

She turned to him, concern rippling across her features.

"What was up?"

He waved her off, a hand on hers.

"It's fine. It's nothing to worry about — not for you anyway. I'm not gonna put that on you with what you've got going on."

"Right," she replied, her shoulders sagging slightly.

"Uhh… how is she?"

"It's not good," she said with a defeated shrug, "Could be days, could be weeks, could outlive us all."

"If you need anything, please just ask me, or one of the other two. We will literally drop anything for you, you know that."

"I do, I do. C'mon! You're avoiding the subject! Tell me about how you're secretly in love with Bobby but won't tell him! I need drama."

"It's nothing like that. It's just… I really don't know. We had sex this morning and like, it felt like how I guess it's supposed to feel when you're with someone you love. But," he added, "Of course I love him — he's my friend. I love you, I love Jean. It's not that I want him to be my boyfriend. I get the same feeling with him when we hang out that I do when I hang out with you guys. Like, you and me in this car now feels the same as him and me this morning, you know?"

"Hopefully not the  _ exact  _ same."

"Well, no."

"I asked him all this the other day at school too. We ate lunch together and I asked him what you guys' deal was. He said the same thing — 'John's my friend! We're just fuckin' around'. I think it's cool, for what it's worth. I kinda wish I could have something simple like that. Is it simple? Or am I being naive?"

"It's pretty easy. Bobby's enthusiastic to a fault, to be honest. I told him I wanted him to pee on me once as a joke and I swear he looked like he was about to ask me if he could go drink some water first."

"He's insane."

"No, he's literally insane. He did stuff with me the  _ first  _ time we were together that I still think about."

"Can I ask as well, and this one isn't relationship bullshit or whatever — what's it like sleeping with him? Like, really sleeping?"

John's hand found her thigh, his other across his heart, his face pulled into an expression of mock reverence.

"Ororo… it's so good, I'm sorry. Like, usually we sleep apart because I like to be on my side and he doesn't, but sometimes he'll hold me from behind and like — you've seen his arms. Pillows. Clouds. Marshmallows. Best sleep of your life guaranteed."

"I'm so jealous."

"Ask him to sleep with you! He probably would! He likes to cuddle. He told me he does it with his straight friends too."

"Interesting. I'll think about it the next time we do movie night."

"Not if it's a scary one — you know he likes to hide behind me."

"That's because you don't even react to anything on the screen!" she said, in exasperation, "Your heart rate is fucking zero the whole way through, it's twisted."

He shrugged, the two of them finally arriving at Warren's complex. It was a nice building — all glass and steel and rent that reached heights the structure could only dream of attaining — both feeling entirely out of place in such an expensive part of town. Ororo fired off a text to Warren, letting him know they had arrived. Shortly, the front door buzzed open of its own accord, ushering them inside into the foyer and waiting elevator. They slouched against the mirrored walls of the enclosed space, John's fingers twined with Ororo's, listening to her breathe deeply as she fought off her claustrophobic impulses. He heard her sigh in relief as the doors pinged open, Warren waiting for them at his front door. 

He was fair — blond waves of hair which seemed incapable of falling anywhere other than in perfectly styled whorls across his head, skin so pale you could see his veins, eyes the colour of a lawn in a real estate magazine. He grinned as they approached him, revealing a mouth of alabaster slabs as he pulled them both in for a hug.

"Hi babies! How are we all today? C'mon, this hallway is freezing."

John often wondered about Warren's exaggerated outward countenance — his exuberant greetings, his physical affection. Even as he guided them through his hallway and into the main room, his hands were on their shoulders, fingers trailing in the short hairs at the back of John's neck. John figured it must have been some sort of defense system — to overwhelm anyone who met him with overbearing kindness and physical contact to distract them from whatever it was Warren didn't want them to see. The question weighed on him only because Warren was so different at night, once the lights were down, his bedroom door shut, the two of them naked in his sheets. There, he was quiet, his touches more purposeful, his voice almost a whisper, so much that John had to lean into him, pressing himself cheek to cheek with Warren just to hear.

Which, he supposed, could be another tactic in and of itself.

"Helloooo, you there, John?" he asked, snapping him out of his thoughts with a hand waved in front of his face. 

John, sheepish, blushed and nodded.

"Yeah, sorry. Spacing out."

Warren shrugged, tossing the two of them their bags, each shuffling them quickly away, hidden beneath their layers.

"You're supposed to do that  _ after  _ you get my stuff, not before."

Ororo chuckled, caught by the scent of something cooking.

"You baking, Warren? What's that smell?"

"Oh!" he said, snapping his fingers as if remembering something, strolling over to his oven and switching it off, removing a tray of brownies, fanning them with a dishcloth. "I made brownies! They're mostly not burned!"

"Are they… you know,  _ special  _ ?" John asked, craning his neck to get a look from where he and Ororo stood in the centre of the living room.

"Yup! They've got white  _ and  _ dark chips!"

"I meant were they-"

"I know what you meant, dummy. No, they're just normal. Just cause I sell weed doesn't mean it's my whole life. Besides," he added, John rolling his eyes, "I already sold my batch of space cakes. College party last week. I hear it wasn't much fun though… I made them a little strong. Everyone was asleep by midnight."

He returned to them, oven mitts still on, gesturing with arms broad.

"Alright girls, I'm gonna need my money now before things get ugly. Is Nancy from The Craft still paying cash?" he asked, addressing John, who had been subject to that nickname since he had arrived at his first pickup in a leather jacket and ripped black jeans. He groaned as Ororo laughed, slapping the money into the palm of Warren's mitt. Ororo's fingers whirled across her phone screen, Warren's own phone pinging on the table shortly after. They didn't linger, Warren ushering them out with claims that he had a man coming over soon after them, and needed to get himself ready. 

They parted with hugs and kisses on cheeks, Warren's fingers holding just a moment too long on John's arm. 

John and Ororo made their way back home, down on money but rich in a different kind of green. 

_ Hey _

_ Do you wanna come over tomorrow maybe? _

It was Friday, almost a week since he and Ororo had visited Warren. He hadn't expected to see Simon's contact flash on his screen that evening — hadn't expected anyone's to, especially since Bobby had called off earlier that day.

_ "Hi, it's me,"  _ he had begun, calling John on his way into school as he nodded along in the parking lot, finishing his pre-Math cigarette,  _ "Do you mind if I don't come over tomorrow? I've been talking to a guy for a while and we haven't been able to make a time work in forever, but he's free tomorrow night, so I was gonna head over. Is that okay?" _

John had chuckled down the line, the idea that Bobby felt the need to consult him first tickling him. Distantly, he wondered what would happen were he to have said no. Would Bobby have dropped it, told the guy he had other stuff going on? He couldn't be sure, but he had a fair idea.

"I guess I can let it go, just this once. His dick better be huge if you're blowing me off so you can blow him."

_ "Oh, it is." _

That had been that, the two of them dissolving into juvenile giggles as Bobby described his new suitor. He had assured John he would be all his the week after, barring disaster.

That had left John with an empty schedule for Saturday, one which Simon seemed apt to fill. John had been tutoring him for some time, after Simon had spilled to him that he was failing a couple of subjects, which left him liable to being kicked off the football team. John had been taken in by his earnestness, the tears beginning to form in the corners of his wide eyes as his mind drifted off into his worst nightmare of being denied his shot at glory. John thought quietly that he seemed to have divined a personal weakness in himself — a soft spot for boys with big muscles and sad faces. One pout, a pair of eyes turned down at the sides in defeat, and John's heart was a puddle in the center of his chest, putty in their hands.

Their tutoring sessions inevitably descended into sex — Simon at least able to control himself long enough to concentrate on whatever problems John had brought for him that week for them to work through. Eventually though, he would grow restless — his lips tracing lines of kisses up John's jaw, behind his ear, teeth on his neck, hand under his shirt — and they would end up in his bed, faces close, Simon breathing hard in his ear. He had grown considerably in the weeks John had known him, a new confidence seeping into him whenever they were together. He had tried out the apps on John's suggestion, feeling his way mostly blind as he attempted to discover himself. It was endearing to watch, his naivety, his wide-eyed excitement as he regaled John with stories of his encounters — many of whom John had known himself, in one way or another. 

_ What's up? _

_ You need extra tutoring? _

Simon's reply came through a little while after. Evidently he had more going on than John ever did, which wasn't surprising.

_ Sorry, shower _

_ Back now _

He followed his excuse up with photo evidence — his mirror fogged up with steam, a rough square of it cleared by the sweep of a hand, Simon's torso visible. His skin was still wet, glistening in the light, droplets tracing down the divots and raises in his muscles, sliding inexorably downwards toward the part of his body still obscured by steam.

John swallowed at the sight of him, blinking himself back to reality.

_ Your body is nuts _

Simon returned his compliment with a string of emojis, alternating between a bashful, blushing face, and one altogether more impish.

_ Teen metabolism _

_ I'll be 600 pounds with bad knees and no hair by the time I'm 35 _

_ Live fast, die young _

_ That's what they say _

_ No one says that _

_ But ok _

John shook his head — clearly Simon was now comfortable enough with him to talk back. He was beginning to regret not just sprinting away as he approached him that morning in the parking lot.

_ Whatever _

_ Awh _

_ Don't be pouty baby _

That had been another development. Simon had started calling him baby on a regular basis, to the point that John was starting to fear that he might enjoy it. It was a different situation when it was breathed into your ear while you were being pummeled into the mattress by two hundred plus pounds of hulking teenager.

_ I told you to stop calling me that _

_ And I told you I'd stop calling you it when you stopped liking it so much _

_ You're not making a very convincing case for me to come over  _

He paused for a moment before quickly typing out a message, preempting Simon's response.

_ Don't even think about sending me a picture of it _

He watched Simon typing, watched the dots disappear, and then reappear.

_ Fuck you _

_ I even shaved down there _

_ It's fine _

_ You can show me tomorrow _

Simon left him with another emoji, hearts bursting in its eyes, their conversation done for the moment.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. It was cold in his room, his window left open absentmindedly as he had prepared his dinner, arriving back to air so frigid it almost misted in front of him. He had slid under his covers to preserve what little heat there was in his body, remaining there as night had fallen around him. 

He thought about Bobby, inspecting himself for even a twinge of jealousy at the notion of him running off with some other guy instead of holding up his and John's Saturday arrangement as usual. Yet, there seemed to be nothing there, of note. No hollow bitterness eating away at the center of his heart, no sting behind his eyes, no anxious twist in his stomach as he contemplated the two of them together.

He was happy — content, almost.

He and Simon met often, given that they shared the same school. John had spent two evenings a week for almost a month at Simon's, going through old tests and homework assignments in a valiant effort to get him up to at least a B average. It was slow going, but Simon was focused, despite his propensity towards distraction. John enjoyed tutoring him — it was nice to have someone sit and listen to you without interrupting for once. It was something he got with Bobby also — a quiet attentiveness that you could only ever receive by someone who actually wanted to hear what you had to say. 

He often thought about Simon asking him to go on a date with him, so many weeks ago. He had refused point blank, his general response whenever officiality worked its way into any conversation with a romantic partner. Yet, he had considered as time went on that he may have been too harsh. Maybe he and Simon could have something together — maybe not something permanent, lasting the rest of their lives, but  _ something  _ . Each time, however, that he thought of perhaps even approaching the subject, he would get a text from Bobby, or recall a memory of the two of them, and all of a sudden a life with Simon felt like it was lacking. 

He huffed a frustrated sigh, and rolled over on himself, willing sleep to come.

* * *

Simon picked him up that following evening, his sleek, near-silent car barely breaking the silence of John's street. It looked expensive — John had said as much to him one night, Simon half-asleep with his chin on John's shoulder. He had mumbled to him in a voice heavy with drowsiness that it had been a gift from his grandparents for passing his driving test — the first, and only to that point, of his three brothers to do so. He was the youngest of four children, yet had somehow gotten all of the useful genes in the pool — winding up not only the tallest, but the most muscular of his siblings, a fact which he lorded over them whenever possible.

"Biggest dick, too," he had added, slyly. 

John hadn't pressed him on how he had arrived at that knowledge.

John had been on his porch as Simon pulled up, arms around his waist against the cold, breath visible even though he had finished his smoke some time ago. Simon leaned over as he approached, throwing the car door open for him, allowing John to slip into the warmth of the interior, Simon's hand around the back of his neck pulling him in for a kiss — a bold move, and not one John was used to, from him at least. He returned it, the two of them holding for a beat before John placed a hand on his chest, patting him gently as he pulled away. Simon grinned at him, diving in to kiss at his neck, chuckling low in his chest at the tiny gasp John attempted to strangle before it could expose how easy it was to push his buttons. He righted himself suddenly, starting up the car, leaving John breathing heavily, pushing out a laugh as he fastened his seatbelt.

"You're in a good mood tonight," he said, finally able to return Simon's smile.

He shrugged, driving with one hand on the wheel so the other could run along John's cheek, down his chest, fingertips ghosting along the inside seam of his pants.

"Just happy to see you, I guess. Without having to go to my room and study more chemistry, at least."

"How did your test go the other day?"

He smiled at John, his face warm, John's chest filling with sloshing water at the sight of his joy, leaving him unbalanced.

"I passed!"

"That's great news, Si."

"All thanks to you, baby."

"So is tonight supposed to be your way of saying thanks?"

Simon shook his head, removing his hand from John's inner thigh to cup his cheek once more.

"Nah," he replied, squeezing John's cheek with his fingers, rattling his head on his shoulders playfully, "Just wanted to take advantage of the one night you're not shacked up with your man!"

"I keep telling you he's not-"

"I know, I know," Simon cut him off, waving his hand between them, "I'm just kidding. We've got the same thing going on here, in any case. Or, close enough, anyway. You never stay over at mine, for one thing."

John exhaled roughly through his nose, brow furrowing in annoyance. He hadn't agreed to meet Simon so they could go over this same track once again.

"Simon-"

"Look — I'm just joking around, alright? Don't take it too personally. I'm not still trying to date you. You said you don't do that, and I respect it, okay? If we can't joke about it why are we even bothering, John?"

He bit back his response, surprised at how forthcoming Simon was with his feelings, his intentions. He chewed on his thumbnail for want of something else to do as he mulled over his response, settling on catching Simon's ear between his knuckles, gently kneading it as he hummed along.

"I'm sorry, Si. I don't mean to snap at you. This stuff is just a little much for me, to be honest."

"What do you mean?"

John shuffled around in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, his leg beginning to jostle of its own accord.

"I dunno. It's just kind of a lot to juggle, I guess. All the fucking around. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not better off maybe just settling down for a bit. Picking my poison and drinking it, as it were."

"But you also don't want to do that, because you don't like putting all of that onto someone else — cuz they might let you down," Simon offered, John shifting in his seat to watch his face. His smile had left, replaced by something harder, something more serious.

Under the traffic lights, under the soft glow from his sophisticated dashboard, Simon was beautiful. He wore glasses while he drove — thin frames that sat lightly against the high bridge of his nose. He wore a chain just like Bobby, his gold, with no pendant, no swinging Christ, no haloed Madonna. They were similar in size too, Simon taller, a little wider. John, conscious now of his staring, swallowed, voice tentative.

"Yeah. I'm guessing… I'm guessing you feel a little like that too, huh?"

Simon shrugged again, his overwhelming frame shrinking on itself with the movement, a quirk of something dark across his face.

"I do, yeah."

"Hey," John said, reaching for him, lacing their fingers together as they were each lit up by a red light, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring the mood down."

Simon turned on to his street with one hand, the other still held in John's in his lap.

"It's fine," he said finally as he parked, killing the engine, raising John's hand to his lips to kiss the back of it, "C'mon, let's go."

Simon's house was in darkness, his brothers — two of them, at least, the eldest long moved out, currently in Colorado with his wife — having returned to college, his parents disappearing off to his relatives' upstate for the weekend. They passed through the silent, eerie hallways of his house quickly, Simon ushering John ever forwards with a hand on his back. They fumbled into his room in the dark, avoiding walking headlong into the door, which was far closer in the gloom than it appeared. John waited, holding his breath, arms raised ever so slightly at his sides as he felt Simon move around him in the dark, blinking as his lamp clicked on, bathing the two of them in its warm glow. 

Simon approached him slowly, hands sliding around his hips, pulling John into him, his chin resting atop his chest, their eyes meeting. John wound his arms around Simon's back, the two of them swaying together gently, warmth spreading between them. Distantly, John was aware of his phone buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it.

"Are you going to that party in a couple of weeks?" Simon asked suddenly, looking like he had meant to ask him that question hours previous, "There's gonna be booze, I heard." 

John blinked twice as the memory of the party swam to the forefront of his mind, the half-remembered invitation he had gotten from Bobby.

"Uhh… what's the dude's name again? Jake? Jason? Jay? I don't remember."

"David."

"Close."

"Not really. Are you going?"

John nodded, chin dragging along the soft cotton of Simon's t-shirt.

"I'll be there."

"Cool."

Silence fell around them then, John leaning up on his toes to kiss him, Simon opening up to kiss him back — still using a little too much tongue, which John chalked up to inexperience. Pulling away to breathe, John moved down Simon's neck, his teeth grinding against him, Simon letting loose a low moan that dissolved into chuckling laughter. Simon brought them over to the bed, the two of them walking as one, John unwilling to give up on kissing every inch of his chest from his throat down to his hips and back again, pausing at his ribs to sink his teeth in, drawing out gasped laughter from Simon as he pulled him back up to lie face to face. They laid like that for some time, Simon tugging off John's shirt, pressing them close together, letting their bodies slide against one another, skin against smooth skin. John settled into his arms, his face flushed, his breathing heavy, and met his eyes.

"Can I ask you something — it's a little touchy, so you don't have to answer."

"Shoot."

"What's it like for you, on the apps? Like," he continued, as Simon's face creased in confusion, "I've heard it can be kind of bad, for racism and stuff."

Simon shrugged, rocking their bodies as he shifted to hold John against his side, the two of them having abandoned any notions of sex for the moment.

"I uhh… it's weird. There's racism, yeah. My skin is pretty dark, and so there are some guys who you can tell are avoiding me, but would be all over me if I were a little lighter. I haven't been called the word that we're both thinking of — I'm still waiting on someone to pull that one out on me."

"Right. I'm just… I was curious. Ororo tells us about how weird dating can be — guys who treat her either like she's some weird fetishy sex object, or when they flat out ignore her because she's too black for them. I dunno… maybe I shouldn't be asking you, either. I don't want to put you on the spot and make you have to go over stuff like that, you know?"

"It's alright. It doesn't bother me."

"Right," he said, settling back into Simon's embrace, trailing his fingers along his stomach, noting the pale glow of his flesh against the rich darkness of Simon's skin. Simon kissed him again, more gently than before, the warmth and gentle press of his lips so reminiscent of that first time back in the front seat of his car. His eyes closed of their own volition, John left watching his serene face as he gave in to himself. John was struck suddenly by a sensation of placid calm, almost elated — proud, even — of Simon's newfound comfort in his identity. John understood how hard it had been for him over the years — Simon having explained as much during their times together. He had been lonely, had felt like an imposter around his friends, his family. He had confided in John one night in his room — John held tightly in his arms, the two of them splayed across Simon's mattress — that his talk with John that day after school had more or less changed his life. John hadn't been sure how to react, and so had said nothing, merely touching their foreheads together in a gentle gesture of acknowledgement.

As he had become lost in his thoughts, Simon had ramped up their kiss, his lips burning hot against John's neck, his hands all over his body. Ghosting down along John's ribs, Simon ground his thumbs into his hips, John squirming against him. His jeans were gone in a flash, Simon undoing them and flinging them across the room in no time, leaving John in his underwear, Simon shifting to lay over him, the length and breadth of his body swallowing John's senses. Simon stroked the back of his knuckles across John where he was hard, bringing his eyes up to meet John's.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

"Blow me, please."

John had wanted to sound commanding, but the warmth of Simon's hand shattered his resolve, leaving his voice more of a pleading whisper than anything else. Simon grinned, kissing at John's stomach as he pulled his underwear off, John as hard as he had ever been, upright between them. He gasped as Simon took him into his mouth, his hand moving to the back of his head, not applying pressure, merely giving him something with which to anchor himself. Simon's first few attempts had been lackluster — the usual list of complaints — but something had changed in the interim. Evidently, someone — not John, for sure — had taken the time to show him how it was done. One way or another, Simon had gotten better. He alternated between using his mouth — taking John all the way in easily, swallowing while he was inside — and his hand, pulling off to run his thumb under John's head, kissing up the length of him. John's hands clawed into the sheets, resisting the urge to thrust up into Simon's mouth, holding himself back from the brink.

"Simon…" he choked out, voice a ragged whimper, "Slow down, I'm gonna-"

"I don't care. You can go twice. I wanna taste you."

John groaned, Simon taking him all the way in again, his pace quickening, a spit-slick finger working its way between John's legs. As he circled him, Simon raised his eyes to meet John's, expression questioning. John nodded, resting his legs across Simon's shoulders to make things easier. He felt Simon enter him, felt him go right for the spot John had told him about, felt the heat of his release build in the center of his chest. His hands were balled into fists against his face, his breathing erratic, his hips moving unconsciously off of the bed, pushing him further into Simon as he finished, Simon humming along, one broad palm against his chest, John's hands gripping his wrist for dear life. Simon drew off, removing his finger, drifting up John's heaving stomach, planting kisses all the while, coming up the bed to close his arms around John's shoulders, bundling him against his chest.

"Someone's been teaching you, I see," John said, after a period of silence. 

Simon chuckled, shrugging noncommittally.

"Not just one, but yeah. Been practicing, I guess."

"You're still in your jeans," John said, the feeling of the rough denim against him pulling him back to his body and out of the liquid haze of his mind.

"Take them off for me," Simon breathed into his ear, John nodding, fingers undoing his belt and buttons with quick motions.

He made to grab at Simon as he kicked his jeans across the room with a powerful snap of his leg, but was stopped by his hand on his wrist, his obscene length millimeters from his fingertips.

"Nope," Simon said, with a slow shake of his head, "No touching for you."

"Why not?"

Simon leaned in close, lips brushing John's ear, his deep voice vibrating all the way through and into the springs of the mattress.

"Because I'm about two seconds away from coming and I wanna get in that ass before I do."

"Well," John said, nodding, "You certainly make a convincing argument."

"You're okay for that tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then," he said, moving down John's body once more, shifting him to lay flat on his stomach, bringing his face between his legs once more. His hands held John's hips firmly, his tongue warm against him, John melting in his arms as that same tingling heat spread out through his limbs yet again. He groaned as Simon's fingers entered him, knotting his hands at the back of his head, pressing his face into the pillow. Simon was gentle with him, taking his time, seeming to enjoy the process of getting him ready as much as he would the main event. 

"Si, I'm as ready as I'll ever be, I think."

Simon laughed at the quake in his tone, kissing up his back as he reached over him to his bedside table, sliding on a condom passed to him by John, which had somehow found its way beneath his pillow. 

"How do you wanna be? Front or back?"

"I'm good like this, baby," John said, Simon moving to lay their bodies together. 

He moved John's legs apart slightly with his knees, pushing himself slowly inside, listening for John's breath hitching, waiting for him to tell him to slow down. The warning never came, their hips joined, Simon leaning down to meet John's lips, his stomach a scorching heat against John's back.

"How are you doing? You want me to hold still for a minute?"

John shook his head, testing himself with a slow grind of his hips, Simon's eyes falling shut as he sighed.

"I'm okay, you can go ahead. But," he added, palm on Simon's cheek so he would meet his eyes, "Go slow, tonight — I want it sweet, you understand?"

Simon flashed him a smile, a firm press of his lips to John's cheek, a nod against him, their faces nuzzling together softly.

"You got it, baby."

Simon was gentle with him, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate circles that took him half out of John, only to sink back inside at the same pace, holding a steady rhythm that allowed the two of them two enjoy the more subtle sensations — shifting heat and pressure, as well as the string of sounds that escaped their lips whenever they weren't kissing. Simon worked an arm beneath John's stomach, holding him closer still, the fingers of his other hand laced with John's own.

"You feel so good, baby."

"Simon… Jesus Christ man, you're incredible."

Simon chuckled in his ear, pressing another kiss to his temple, the two of them beginning to move minutely faster, their release building. Simon remained composed however, his pace never quickening much, even as John finished, tensing around him, his body melting into Simon's. When he did finish he was quiet, pulsing inside of John, his moans stifled in his mouth, sweat glistening on his forehead as he pulled himself out as gently as he could, rolling off of John and onto his back, limbs spread wide across the sheets. John remained on his front, shifting only to face Simon, a hand draped loosely across his stomach.

"I wish everyone with a dick like yours knew what they were doing with it."

Simon laughed, stomach spasming beneath John's fingers, his own hand brushing gently through his hair.

"I had a good teacher."

"Who?" John asked, wondering if it was someone he knew.

"You, dumbass."

"Oh," he said quietly, embarrassed.

Simon rolled his eyes, moving onto his side, pulling John into him, his back against his chest, ignoring his protests.

"Simon, come on… it's getting late."

"Five minutes."

"Five minutes always turns into an hour with you, I'm gonna miss curfew."

"So stay. Tell your aunt you're at a friend's. I'll drive you home tomorrow morning, I've got practice anyway, I'll be up early."

John huffed against him, still squirming in an attempt to extricate him from Simon's iron grip. He made to speak again, Simon interrupting him, his voice soft, eyes pleading.

"Please? You never spend the night. I just wanna hold you for a little while."

John relented, Simon's tone enough to melt his heart in his chest, and relaxed against him, patting his hand where it laid flat against his heart.

"Alright, I'll ask if I can stay — but you gotta let me up so I can text my aunt."

Simon released him, John turning away from his smile — broad and white and self-satisfied — fishing his phone out of his discarded jeans, returning to sit at the edge of Simon's bed. He curled around him, kissing a line over John's hip, his other hand trailing long fingers down his back, John shivering against him.

As he opened his phone, he spied a series of messages from Bobby — the likely cause of the vibration in his pocket he had felt earlier.

_ Hey _

_ That guy flaked again _

_ Asshole _

_ If you're not doing anything, I can come over _

_ If you want!!  _

There was a break in the messages then, a couple of hours passing before Bobby had tried him again.

_ Sorry _

_ Don't want you to feel like you're my second choice _

_ You must be busy _

His final message had been sent only a few minutes prior — a trio of emojis, their eyes shut, 'z's floating up from their mouths.

He felt a stab of something in his chest, a sudden wave of nauseous guilt at having left Bobby hanging. His mind caught up quickly though, reminding him that it had been  _ him  _ left alone, as Bobby had traipsed off with someone else. Two conflicting waves battered one another on the shore of his mind, neither able to subsume the other. His face soured, swallowing down the bitter taste which had coated his tongue, clearing his throat.

Simon called up to him from the bed, aware that something had changed.

"John, what's up baby?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, composing himself, "Just had other texts to read. I'm very popular, you should know."

Simon snorted, hefting himself off of the bed and into his bathroom, leaving John to text his aunt.

_ Hey, Jean asked if I wanted to just stay over, since we're going shopping tomorrow anyway _

_ Is that okay? _

Frances took a moment to respond, John willing the anxious twist in his chest to release.

_ All good with me _

_ Did you bring a change of clothes _

_ Yeah _

_ I'll see you tomorrow _

_ Love you _

_ Love you _

He locked his phone, settling once more in Simon's bed, surrounded by the smell of him — in the sheets, in his pillow — his warmth lingering. He pulled the covers over himself, doing his best to feign sleep as he heard the click of the bathroom light, as he felt Simon pad around his room, flicking the lamp off, darkness returning. He slid in beside John, pulling him to his chest, his hand rolling gentle circles into John's side, one leg crossed over both of John's. His lips met John's cheek — a kiss far from a peck, lingering enough to solidify John's fears that something was beginning to develop in Simon.

"Goodnight, baby."

John said nothing, still holding himself as still as possible, keeping his breathing deep as he felt Simon drift off at his side. 

He laid awake for some time, unable to relax, some unnamed feeling prickling at the back of his throat.

"Shit."


	7. I Don't Wanna Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang go to a party.  
> TW for homophobia.

November, Senior Year

"I don't get these movies," Ororo said, settling once again onto the couch — the four of them having gathered as usual for their monthly movie night at John's house— a fresh bowl of popcorn in her hands, Jean shifting to lean against her side, head on her shoulder, a blanket refitted around both of their shoulders, their legs tucked under themselves.

"What do you mean?" Jean replied, reaching for the bowl, her hand emerging as a claw — an inordinate amount of kernels trapped between her fingers, which she lifted to her mouth. Ororo watched fascinated as she ate, not letting a single fall past the reach of her tongue.

"They're just stupid… like, why are you trying to have a bath after like eighteen people in your town got gutted by a serial killer in the last week? Read the room, sis. Like, look at her," she added, gesturing to the screen, where a blonde woman in her late twenties attempting to portray an eighteen year old was lowering herself slowly — back facing the camera, her shapely body in full view, dripping in water already despite only just having taken her clothes off — into a bathtub, oblivious to the ominous figure outside of her window, "How can she not fucking see him standing there?"

"You say that now," John countered, "But didn't you hear a noise in your basement last week before you went to shower, and then didn't even think twice before you got in?"

Ororo waved her hand dismissively.

"That was different, we've got mice. Dad's been trying to get rid of them for months, but he won't man up and have them killed. He's trying to rehome them."

"What an angel," John said, their conversation halted by the sudden bloom of strings in the movie's score, harmonizing with the deathly shriek of the girl on screen, who had — unsurprisingly — begun the process of being murdered. From John's chest came a low whine, Bobby shifting in his sleep, turning his head over to the opposite side, away from the screen, settling himself again into John, who went back to running his fingers gently through his hair. Bobby had arrived that evening exhausted, a combination of swim practice, his job, and homework having entirely sapped him of energy. He had gotten to John's place before Ororo and Jean, and had quickly laid himself atop John, the two of them sprawled out lengthways along the couch opposite to where Ororo and Jean now sat. His sleep had been uninterrupted, his lower lip pushed forwards, John occasionally toying with it, suppressing laughter whenever his nose would twitch in response.

"He's so cute," Jean said, eyeing Bobby as he nuzzled himself back into John, tucking his arms somehow further under his shoulders.

"He's heavy, is what he is," John replied, attempting to shift Bobby into a position where John was no longer at risk of internal bleeding from having his organs crushed. Bobby roused as John squirmed, inhaling suddenly, his body tensing as wakefulness came to him all at once. He groaned, raising himself up, extricating his arms from beneath John, moving to kneel up on the couch. His eyes were half-shut, his face scrunched into an uncomfortable grimace, his hair a tangle. The other three watched him, amusedly, as he woke himself up, stretching tall, his back popping with an alarming volume. John moved out from beneath him, rising to make his way to the kitchen, Bobby flopping back down on the couch, still not having spoken, words clearly beyond him at that point.

John returned, tossing him a bottle of water, which he gulped down in one, still pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. As John sat, Bobby relaxed into him again, an arm around his waist, John's back pulled into his side, his legs up and over the side arm of the couch. They finished the film mostly in silence, Bobby too tired to even register the gore on the screen, barely flinching as the last few characters met their ends against the killer's blade. As the credits rolled, he yawned, rubbing at his eyes. The sound stretched long, seeming to pull his whole body with it toward the ceiling, before finally releasing, Bobby left loose on the couch.

"I'm sorry, guys. I should have stayed at home tonight," he said, voice still carrying the echo of his yawn, "I'm so fuckin' tired."

"Do you wanna just go and sleep upstairs in my room? I don't mind. You can stay, it's not like you even need to ask anymore."

John caught Ororo's eye as he spoke, her smirking at him, him throwing his eyes to the ceiling right back at her. Beside him, Bobby shrugged.

"I dunno… I have work tomorrow."

"So? It's like five extra minutes in your car. You'll live. Go on," he said, nodding at the stairs, "Go."

Bobby sighed, kicking his legs in defiance like a toddler, before relenting and moving to stand. He swayed slightly on his feet as he rose, his blood suddenly tasked with moving again, and teetered off in the direction of the stairs — not before leaving the three of them with a single kiss each, John's perhaps a second longer. They watched him leave, mostly in case he collapsed, or walked headlong into the doorframe on his way.

"Do you think he's alright? I've never seen him like that," Jean asked, concerned as always.

"He's fine," John said, nonchalant as he returned to his bowl of popcorn, "I've seen him worse. Going back to school kicked his ass. Getting up at six thirty so he can go to the gym before the bell, then doing however many hours of classes, then doing swim practice, then doing his job — he's insane. So no, he'll be fine, he just needs to slow down."

Ororo made a face, nodding along.

"The body though… if we're talking about insane…"

"No, no, you're absolutely right," John said, nodding just as vigorously, the two of them briefly joining hands in simultaneous acknowledgement of Bobby's physique, "  _ But  _ , he still doesn't need to do all of that shit."

"Why does he work out so much, anyway? It's not like you need huge muscles to swim?" Jean said, her face puzzled.

"I asked him about it once," John said, craning his neck to make sure Bobby was out of earshot.

"And?"

"He wouldn't say. He got all quiet, wouldn't look me in the eye. I didn't wanna push him or anything — it was a while ago, maybe he'd open up to me now about it, but I'm not too concerned."

Jean's face narrowed, her eyes somewhere else.

"What if it's, like, an eating disorder though?"

"You need to calm down, Jeanie," Ororo replied, a hand on the back of Jean's, another running fingers lightly through her hair.

"I don't think Bobby has an eating disorder, Jean. Not unless eating like a wild hog who got let loose in a grocery store counts."

"I still think you should try asking him about it."

John gave in, palms raised.

"I'll do my best."

Time came eventually for Ororo and Jean to leave, Jean's father already texting her in advance of her curfew, Ororo her ride home. They stopped at the door, John leaning against the frame, barely registering the frigid air.

"We're all going to that party tomorrow night, right? David's?" Ororo asked, adding his name for John's benefit, glancing between the two of them.

John shrugged.

"I'll be there. I'm sure he will be too," he said, gesturing upwards to the general area of his room, "Assuming he can stay awake."

"Who's our driver? I heard David got a new fake ID that's actually capable of convincing someone over the age of three, so there's gonna be alcohol."

"I'll do it — although I'm probably just gonna end up dragging Bobby home with me when he inevitably drinks too much and gets messy, so one of you might need to be on call as well."

Jean and Ororo exchanged a look, the two of them playing three rounds of Rock Paper Scissors, Jean unceremoniously losing in the final round, Ororo's palm slapping down to envelop her clenched fist.

"Fuck! Fine, fine, I guess I can be a good girl. Whatever."

"You'll make your dad proud, at least," John said, his smile only darkening her mood further. After a beat, he clapped his hands together, shooing them away like a pair of birds, "Alright, both of you get the hell out of here, I've got cuddling to do."

They left him with more rolling eyes, clambering into Jean's car, rattling off down the street in a cacophony of clanking metal. John made his way back inside, clearing away the debris of their gathering, sweeping away stray kernels from the couches, rearranging cushions, carting glasses to the dishwasher where he could forget about them. Midway through his tidying, Frances arrived home, arms laden with grocery store bags. She preferred to shop late, the store far more peaceful, less hectic than during the day, allowing her to truly become one with the bargains, sweeping down the aisles like the spirit of commercialism.

"How was movie night?"

"It was good. The usual stupid horror movie."

She nodded, as if that were the most interesting thing she had heard all day, a grin spreading slowly across her face.

"I see Bobby's car is still outside."

"Yeah," he replied, sheepishly, "I told him he should stay tonight. He's exhausted. He slept through the whole movie, and the one before it."

"Is he alright?"

"He's just tired. He's got a lot going on."

"Alright," she said finally, gesturing to the stairs, "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow. Are you going to that kid's party tomorrow?"

"We are — I'm our designated driver for the night."

"Unsurprising."

"Right?" he replied, his tone long-suffering.

They parted, John moving upstairs, finding Bobby awake and on his phone, tucked under John's covers on his side. He looked up as John entered, his face pulled down — perhaps not quite in sadness, although something in the same family. John approached him, sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand across his cheek.

"Why the long face?"

"Jean's stupid car woke me up. I was having such a nice time sleeping, and then boom clap the sound of my heart all the way down the street. I figured I may as well wait for you to come back."

"I'll be sure to lodge a complaint on your behalf."

"No need," he replied, wiggling his phone in his fingers, "I already texted her."

They laughed, quiet and easy, John undressing for bed, slipping in behind Bobby, who turned himself over to press his face into John's neck, sighing heavily against him.

"You're so comfy,” he mumbled, grin tangible against John’s skin, “Maybe that's why I'm so tired — I just gotta keep sleeping here."

"I feel like you're over here all the time."

"You say that like it's a bad thing! I'd have you over to my place more often but my parents are a living nightmare to be around."

"It's fine. I prefer my own room, to tell you the truth."

"I know you do," Bobby said quietly, kissing his throat once, settling with a sigh, "G'night, Johnny."

John stroked his back — wide circles in the soft fabric of Bobby's shirt — listening to him as his breathing softened, as his body melted into John's, as the two of them slipped into dreaming together, ever closer.

* * *

They had been at the party for two hours when John realized he had made an awful mistake.

He stood at the sink in the kitchen of David's house, hovering by a punch bowl filled with a noxious-looking liquid of indeterminate colour and composition — some infernal potion of seven different pilfered liquors from various households' drinks cabinets, not to mention an unnecessary variation of different sodas, all to numb the burning protest of one's throat as it went down. He had tried a cup of it, half-filling the red plastic container as he had seen most of the other partygoers do, eyeing it cautiously as those around him tipped their heads back and let the fire run down. There had been grimaces, groans, green faces and shouts of disgust — quickly departing as the alcohol took its hold. John had sipped at it, conscious of his responsibilities that night, spending more time watching his reflection in the rippling surface.

He had been introduced to a whirlwind of people — Bobby's friends from this class, his friends from that class, his swim team members, the football guys he knew. It had been a lot, a parade of similar looking faces all blurring into one as they slurred and slipped through John's vision. He had nodded along politely, laughing when prompted, more concerned with the sensation of Bobby's arm around his shoulders. Something about it — in that unfamiliar space, already on edge while surrounded by so many strangers, their intentions and perceptions unclear, their voices and the music deafening — left John profoundly uncomfortable. His skin felt hot where Bobby's brushed against it, itchy, prickling like an allergic reaction. He managed to shrug him off with some nonsense excuse — the words hollow in his mouth, completely devoid of any actual substance — slinking away into an out-of-the-way hallway separating the kitchen and one of the dining rooms, holding himself there for a moment just to breathe. Conscious that he might look like a potential thief, he drifted once more into the mostly empty kitchen, and had installed himself by the window, watching Bobby's friend Kyle attempt to fit both he and his hulking Russian boyfriend onto the same swing so he could take a picture of them together. John had briefly asked Bobby about the physical mechanics of their relationship, but he had been as lost as John.

He wondered if he might not be better off going home, entrusting Bobby into the care of someone else at the party, calling his aunt and just having her pick him up. His chest felt heavy, some knotted lump in his throat constricting his voice — the familiar presence of anxiety beginning to make itself known. There were too many people, too many unknowns, too many opportunities for John to say the wrong thing in front of the wrong person and end up with knuckles grinding into his face, teeth bared and slicked with blood. 

He blinked, coming out of himself, turning his back on the window, eyes now trained on a spot on the floor — a blood-splatter splash of 'punch', a casualty of someone's overeager ladling. He had scoped out the living area for signs of a pet of some kind — some furry creature to which John could attach himself for the night — but to no avail. He contemplated eating, eyeing the party plates piled high with snacks. It looked like something from a child's birthday — more than likely David's mother's attempt at catering to what she surely thought would be an altogether more innocent gathering. John wondered what she would have made of the three girls who had gone into her bathroom all at once not fifteen minutes after arriving, emerging shortly after swiping at their noses, or the group of boys who had ended up shirtless, soaked in beer, now left in a sleeping pile in the backyard. 

The noise had grown steadily as the booze had taken its hold, people shouting over music, over one another, just to be heard. He could hear Bobby, his familiar voice resounding over the others, his laughter still chiming musically through the air. He felt his stomach twist — not in anxiety but in jealousy, the envious wash of bile up his throat as he felt isolation surround him. It was pathetic, he thought, his sad-sack moping. It would be simple to just leave the kitchen, to rejoin the others, to let himself be rolled over by the wave of their activity, to be swallowed into the crowd, to take a break from his own head for a night. Yet, there he stood, alone in the corner of a stranger's kitchen, clutching a solo cup of poison, willing time to move faster around him as he listened to other people have fun, separated from them only by the thin walls of the house.

"Figured I'd find you here."

John turned, startled, met with Simon's grinning face, some gurgling feeling of disquiet bubbling in his chest. He was tall as ever, his body occupying most of the available space, leaving little else for John than to be close to him. He beat down the nervous waver in his voice, wrangling himself into his usual persona, regarding Simon with a half-smile and a lazy gaze.

"You know me, not a fan of crowds."

"Not a fan of booze either, by the looks of it," he replied, nodding at John's mostly untouched drink.

He shrugged back at him, placing the cup down, flexing his fingers which had grown stiff while he had held it. Simon, more perceptive than John was used to, picked up on John's mood — more sour than ever, his affected, over-it-all attitude replaced by something a little more genuine, a little sadder. He felt Simon move closer to him, the air shifting in his gravity as he eclipsed John's vision. He wouldn't meet his eyes, casting them down and to the side, unwilling to give in to Simon.

"I uhh… I don't really like to get drunk. Kind of have a family history with that stuff."

Simon raised his palms in concession, his face creasing in sympathy.

"I understand. You don't have to get into it."

"It's fine, I just prefer to be sober — I like to be in control of myself."

Simon watched John's profile, watched his hands against the metal of the sink — the cool seeping through his skin, grounding him. 

"Why'd you come tonight, if you don't mind me asking? It's just that you're not exactly, you know, having the time of your life."

John turned to him, opening his mouth to speak, before shutting it again. He sighed through his nose, shifting his feet beneath him.

"I dunno. The girls were going, Bobby was going. I didn't wanna be the only one staying home. Although, I haven't seen any of them in a while, so maybe I'd have been better off."

He felt Simon's palm circle the back of his neck, the warmth of it overriding the cold metal of the sink, drawing a shiver up John's back. He felt sick with guilt, angry at himself for his narcissism, his need for his friends to be with him at all times, despite his unwillingness to integrate himself. Simon massaged his fingers into John's skin, perhaps in an attempt to untie the frantic knot in his gut, or perhaps just to touch him.

"So you got invited, and they all left you for whatever reason, and now you're here and you don't know anyone and you're pissed off, huh?"

"If you know how I feel, why bother asking, Simon?" he replied, his tone sharp, the sensation of Simon's fingers against him beginning to itch, no longer providing him comfort.

"Hey, hey, don't get snappy. I'm just trying to get on the same page here."

"I don't want to be on the same page, I want to be at home in bed, Simon."

He shrugged away from him, making to push off from the sink, halted by a grip on his wrist, pulling him back into Simon's waiting arms. He stood, body tensed, refusing to fall into him.

"Let go of me."

"Can you just relax, please? Just let me hold you for a little bit. My friends have been fuckin' on one tonight. I've never heard  _ that  _ word so many times before — I'm gonna snap before the night is over."

John breathed a sigh, his body loosening slightly in Simon's embrace, his back against his chest, Simon's chin resting on his head.

"Which one — our word, or  _ your  _ word?"

"Oh god, no, no — our one, Jesus. I wouldn't be here right now if it were the other, I'd be in that room swinging punches."

"I don't doubt that."

"Have you got any plans for after this?"

His voice was soft in attempt at seduction, John feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raise in revulsion. He fought his voice calm, resisting the urge to push Simon away from him. Just beyond the two of them, the party went on, the music swelling as someone evidently hooked it up to a speaker. John's heart beat fast — just barely out of sync with the rhythm from the other room, the conflicting pulses further unsettling him. He exhaled, willing himself calm, his tone loose with Simon, affecting ease.

"I'm the designated driver. I gotta get Bobby home."

"He'll be fine… I'm sure there's someone who can help him out. Why don't you come home with me instead?"

His voice had lowered to a whisper, breath hot on John's ear. John was glad Simon couldn't see his face, the look of pure contempt that flashed across his features enough to have caused an argument.

"Maybe some other time, Simon."

Simon, undaunted by John's outright rejection, began to swirl his hand in tight circles across John's stomach, kissing a line up his neck, John shutting his eyes, considering the prospect that he could simply relax and give in to him, to at least salvage something out of the night, even if it was just another waste of his time.

"What part of no do you not understand, Simon?"

John's spine went rigid at the sound of Bobby's voice — cold and hard, shimmering quietly with subsurface rage. He extricated himself from Simon, staggering a few feet away, unwittingly placing himself between the two of them. Simon straightened, his body standing to attention, rising to the threat in Bobby's tone. Bobby looked ready for a fight, face pointed into a scowl, one fist half-clenched at his side.

"We were just talking," Simon said, not exactly lying.

"I have eyes, Simon."

"Okay," he replied, taking a half step in Bobby's direction, his tone venomous, John caught in the middle, eyes flying between the two, attempting to anticipate the next move, "And so what? I just wanted to see if he wanted to have some fun, seeing as his friends left him all alone."

"Don't," John said, caution in his words, watching Bobby, willing him not to rise to Simon's taunt.

"Funny you should say that — your friends were looking for you. Maybe you should go find them. Wouldn't want them walking in on you like this, huh? Lotta questions there, I'd say."

John could have hit Bobby in that moment. He saw Simon tense as if slapped, his sly, taunting smile slipping into a grimace of pain, watched his eyes dart around the room, suddenly aware of how exposed he was. He swallowed, willing his bravado to return to him, turning to John.

"Alright. I see how it is. I won't bother you again tonight."

He left in a hurry, shoulders sagging, John rooted to the spot. He felt Bobby approach him, felt his fingers on John's arm, the sudden sensation of skin on bare skin jolting him back into his body, enough to wrench his arm away, whirling around to face him. He took in Bobby's appearance — his unfocused eyes, the slight away to his body. He was drunk. John tried to carefully neutralize his tone, swallowing his anger down as he spoke.

"Bobby… don't ever pull that shit with Simon again, you hear me?"

"What? You told him no, I-"

"I didn't mean that. I meant you threatening to out him to his friends. You know he's not ready, you know they're not the type to react appropriately if they found out about him. You saw his face as he left — he was fucking terrified. Don't ever do that again Bobby, I'm warning you."

Bobby recoiled from him, surprise quickly washing across his face, replaced by anger once more. He reared up, splaying his arms wide.

"I didn't threaten him with shit! I was just telling him the truth! It's not my fault he-"

"Don't say it," John warned, finger raised pointedly in between them, "Don't even say it, Bobby. Just because you're out and proud doesn't mean everyone else should be — or even  _ can  _ be."

Bobby faltered, John catching him off guard. He watched him swallow his words, watched his face settle into something new. He stood on anger with two feet, his voice low.

"Alright. I guess I didn't realize how close you two were. Maybe I should have just left you to it."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You think you're getting replaced, is that it? You think just because he fucks me twice a month that that's it — no more Bobby? I'm gonna throw away my best friend for some dick, is that what you're saying to me right now?"

Their voices were rising in volume. Soon they would be loud enough to hear over the music, loud enough to catch the attention of others.

"Well maybe if you had spent any time with us tonight and had some fun, we wouldn't even be having this conversation! But no — you couldn't let yourself fuckin' relax for once. You couldn't stop pretending, for one whole second, that you're above it all, that you're too good for the rest of us."

"Is that what you think? After everything I've told you about me? After all of the time we've spent together — us two alone, and with the girls — you really think that's it?"

John watched Bobby contract into himself, his fingers releasing from where he had balled them up at his sides, his face creasing, a look of pure dejection unfurling in his features.

"I just wanted you to have a good night."

Bobby's voice had faltered, his rage slipping away, replaced by a faraway sadness that almost made John throw away everything they had said, just to take him in his arms again. John sighed heavily, feeling the tide of his own anger begin to ebb, the two of them left stranded in the kitchen, unsure of where to go next.

"Just go, Bobby. Go back out there and have fun."

"I want you to come with me," he replied, voice heavy with the childlike insistence that only the very drunk possess. He took a step towards John, reaching for him, John matching him in the opposite direction. Bobby looked hurt, and a part of John was elated at it — joyful at the thought that he could spread the curse of his shitty night even further.

"I don't want to. I'm gonna go smoke outside."

"I'll go with you-"

John raised his palm, shaking his head.

"I just want to be alone, Bobby. Please. Come see me when you're ready to go home and I'll take you, alright?"

He left Bobby standing in the kitchen, hunched over himself in defeat. 

He emerged into the night, quietly disgusted with himself, and sat heavily on the porch, lighting up a cigarette, watching the smoke trail off into the light of the streetlamps, bundling himself against the cold. The street was mostly dark, the majority of the homes having shut up for the night, curtains drawn, the silence nearly absolute save for the distant thump of the music from behind John. 

His cigarette tasted, unsurprisingly, of ash, the comforting sweetness of the nicotine not even making a dent in his headache, in his foul mood. He tossed it away without even finishing it, watching it roll off into the grass — something for David's parents to perhaps discover whenever they arrived home. 

He didn't notice Ororo sitting beside him until she spoke, his sudden awareness of her startling him. She stared at him — her gaze too focused for her to be drunk, her breathing too quiet. 

"Why does Bobby look like he just got told Santa isn't real?"

John closed his eyes, his worn-out sigh almost fading into a laugh at her words, his gaze rising to the clouds above them. His arms circled his knees, his feet planted in the damp grass, his whole body slumped in on itself. She didn't push him, waiting for him to speak, her own breathing even, her eyes on the side of his head.

"We got into an argument. Stupid shit. It doesn't matter."

"Would that have anything to do with Simon? Because he hasn't said a word since he came back from the kitchen, and he had been pretty fucking obnoxious up to that point."

"Why do people keep asking me questions they already know the answers to? Yes, obviously it has to do with him!"

He turned to her by then, his face pulled taut in anger, hers softening in sympathy.

"Did they fight over you, or was it something else?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"John."

"Yes! Jesus Christ yes, okay? Bobby walked in on me and Simon-"

"Making out, or?"

"It probably would have ended up there — not that I was exactly into it — but no."

"You weren't into it?"

"I wasn't in the mood — I'm still not. When he touched me, Simon, I felt like my whole body was having an allergic reaction to him. Same with Bobby — he barely came near me and I felt like I was gonna throw up. I shouldn't have come tonight — I know I hate these parties, but I just wanted-"

"You just wanted to have fun with your friends," she finished, sighing, "And then we all went off without you and you're left in a stranger's house with no one to talk to."

John heard the waver in her tone, could sense her inner monologue as she berated herself for forgetting about him. He wanted to reach for her, to soothe her and reassure her that she had done no wrong, but he remained as he was, face tight.

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't be. It's not your fault. I could have made more of an effort to join in and I didn't."

"We could have made more of an effort to include you. I don't even know where the fuck Jean is — she went off with her man after like ten minutes and I haven't seen her since. I didn't even see who he was."

"Me either. I think he knows Bobby, maybe ask him."

"Do you really want me to just leave you out here on your own?"

"I don't know. I just don't want to go back in there — I don't know anyone, and I don't want you guys to have to babysit me the whole time. Plus, I don't want to have to deal with either of those two right now. I'm gonna chill out here for a while and then I'll come back in when I feel up to it, alright?"

She stood, pausing in a crouch to press her lips to his temple, her arms warm around his shoulders. She smelled like roses and cinnamon, her hair dangling into his face, tickling his nose. 

"I love you, come back inside soon."

"I love you too."

She left him, silence falling around him once more.

He wasn't sure how long he had been outside when he felt a change in the atmosphere — the sudden cessation of noise from the house, the music turned off in haste, the cacophony of voices trailing into silence.

He turned, craning his neck in an attempt to discern what might have happened, even glancing down the street for the sign of cop cars. The street was empty, the silence complete now with the death of the party, the street suddenly a lot less welcoming to John. He stood, breath misting in front of him, and made his way towards the front door, out of which Ororo came barrelling, her eyes frantic.

"Hi, come inside, please."

"What's going on?" he asked, noting the fear in her eyes — wide and staring, imploring him to follow her.

"Bobby. We can't get him to calm down."

"Is it about-"

"No! Just come on! Jesus!"

She darted back inside, her hair blooming behind her, a sweep of white down the hall, John following suit. People were pouring out of side rooms into the main living area — the center of the party, a room large enough to swallow John's entire home, or so it seemed, its dimensions seeming exaggerated as tension filled the air. He followed the swell of the crowded bodies, dragged forwards in their current, deposited at the edge of the room, wedged in a doorway with three people he didn't know, all eyes fixed on Bobby — held back by two guys John vaguely recognized from earlier that night, from photos on Bobby's Instagram, his face caught in a snarl, teeth bared, struggling against their bodies as he attempted to lunge towards another, standing a few feet away.

John was relieved to find that Simon was not the target of Bobby’s ire — he was still sitting, just a few feet from the unknown boy, his face a stone mask, betraying absolutely nothing. John saw his hand clenched around an empty cup, the plastic warped by his grip, his gaze locked on a spot somewhere on the floor. John nudged his way through the people blocking his path, halting some distance from Bobby, looking quickly between him and the other kid.

"Bobby," he ventured, cautiously, "What's going on?"

Bobby took a moment to register his presence, his eyes moving slowly in their sockets around to John. His expression was one of singular fury, his entire body straining in his friends' arms, occasionally thrashing in an attempt to free himself, every muscle in his body pulled taut in uniform purpose.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him. I'm gonna do it."

John took a step forward, conscious of all eyes in the room on the scene he had just become a part of, his hand held out in front of him, a few inches of space between his fingertips and Bobby's chest.

"What happened, Bobby?"

"I was sitting here, trying to have a good time — on my own, because my best friend didn't want to be around me anymore," he added, John feeling his face grow hot in shame, "And then I hear this  _ prick  _ saying that word, and he's looking in my direction when he says it. So I told him if he wanted to say it so badly, he could say it to my face. And now these  _ fuckers  _ won't let me kill him like I want to."

He was surprisingly coherent, given how much his voice slurred, how unsteady he was on his feet. At one point, he lunged at his friends, aiming to butt his head under one of their chins in an attempt to escape. Mercifully, the guy — Jason, John thought, although he couldn't be sure — avoided him, his voice pleading as he redoubled his efforts.

"Bobby, come on man, you gotta calm down!"

Their eyes fell to John, imploring him to help them, to do what they were incapable of. He took another step forward, putting himself between Bobby and the other — who had remained silent the entire time, watching the proceedings with a slick, self-assured smile. John could see why — he was surrounded by his friends, all from the football team, who appeared to form a loose semicircle around him where they sat. Yet, watching their faces, John wasn't so sure they were as ready to jump in and defend him as he believed — least of all Simon, who was still focused solely on a stain in the carpet, his face never once looking up at the action around him, his jaw tight. 

"Bobby," he said softly, palm flat against his cheek, "Let's go home. You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do! You didn't hear what he sai-"

"Listen to your boyfriend, you don't want to mess with me, fa-"

The word rang like a shot in John's ears, his breath escaping him in a sigh as Bobby began to writhe once again. Around them, the faces of the observers had shifted into profound discomfort, eyes beginning to fall to the floor, expressions ranging from quiet disgust to downright anger, all directed at the other guy — whose name John didn't even know, despite them going to the same school for the last three years. Bobby rocked beneath his hand, his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse thrumming under John's touch. 

"Don't listen to him, please baby, come on. We can just get out of here, it doesn't have to go like this."

Bobby didn't even appear to have heard John, his eyes locked over his shoulder, his whole body primed for violence. John swallowed, not exactly prepared for what he was going to have to do. He began to draw his mind backwards, drifting back in his memory to the day his mother had left them, letting his mind fill with the remembered devastation that had so thoroughly claimed him that year — at least before the empty-chest sensation of pure static had begun to hum beneath his skin and in his thoughts. He felt his eyes well up almost immediately, exaggerating the stressed-out waver in his tone into one of complete desperation, his eyes pleading. 

He very rarely pretended to cry, but he was very good at it.

"Bobby… please… please. Don't do it baby, please. I don't want you to hurt him, Bobby." 

As he spoke, he held Bobby's face in both hands, forcing him to look, to see the tears rolling slowly down his face. John watched Bobby's expression soften, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of John crying, his body straining once more against his friends, this time to reach for John. They let him go, his arm working around John's back, a palm resting against the side of his face, pressing him close, all around them forgotten in an instant. John let his forehead fall to Bobby's shoulder, the fingers of one hand curled in his hair, his now-dry eyes glancing quickly to Ororo, who threw him an encouraging thumbs up.

"Don't cry, baby, please," he said, his own voice close to tears, "I'm okay, see? See? I'm not gonna do anything."

He let Bobby hold him, let him convince himself that John was the one who needed reassurance. He felt the pent-up tension in Bobby's body dissipate as his arms circled John, his heart slowing to baseline as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Let's go home, please."

Bobby nodded, the two of them turning to leave, Bobby leaning heavily on John, his weight almost too much for both of them. At one point, Bobby lost his footing, swaying dangerously into John, threatening to topple them both over. Ororo hurried behind him, sliding under Bobby's other arm, the two of them enough to support him as they staggered towards the exit. They were feet away — the crowd having parted to let them through — when the kid spoke again, desperate for the last word, trying to draw Bobby back into the fight he had denied him.

"Yeah, you better walk away from me, you fucker! I'd have beaten your ass anyway — you and your sissy boyfriend. I can't stand you fucking f-"

He didn't even get the opportunity to finish the word he seemed so desperate to say, interrupted by the collision of a fist into the side of his head. John didn't see, turned away as he was, could only hear the thump of flesh on flesh, the strangled cry of pain as his words trailed off, the collective gasp of their audience. He and Ororo turned, heads snapping quickly to the scene — the kid crumpled on the floor, Simon standing over him, fist clenched at his side. John watched him crouch by the kid's head — right next to the crushed solo cup Simon had been holding onto until that point — his heart blooming in fear that Simon might take it too far.

"Don't  _ ever  _ say that word around me again, you fucking hear me? I'll end your fucking life, scumbag."

Simon thrust once out at him with his foot, pushing the kid onto his front, where he groaned in pain, still clutching his head. Simon stood, looking around the room, a quiet realization slipping into the expressions of some of his friends, the rest caught in varying degrees of open-mouthed shock. One of them — Isaac, who John knew to be gay, or at least questioning himself, based on their time together — reached for him, only for Simon to brush him off, stalking over to where John stood with Ororo and Bobby. He nudged her out of the way, silently slipping himself under Bobby's arm, shifting his weight onto his shoulder. Bobby threw an arm around Simon's neck, their earlier argument forgotten, and the four left, John and Ororo watching the two of them walk together, Bobby speaking gently to Simon the whole time.

"Simon, man… I'm sorry about that shit earlier…"

"It's alright, Bobby," he replied, sober enough to speak and walk at the same time, a feat Bobby wasn't currently capable of, "I shouldn't have pushed your buttons."

"Hey, wait!" Bobby said suddenly, his heart to heart with Simon discarded without second thought, turning once again towards the house, Simon swinging around with him, John and Ororo almost walking into them, "What happened to that asshole? I have to go! I have to go fuck him up!"

His attempts to escape were half-hearted, Simon's arm around his waist enough to hold him in place, John soothing him, fingers in his hair, across his cheek, thumb brushing his lips.

"Bobby, calm down — Simon took care of it."

Bobby's face turned to Simon's, the fight leaving his body as quickly as it had arrived, his expression nothing short of adoring.

"You hit him? For me?"

"Well…" Simon said, chuckling slightly, "Not exactly. But I got him good, yeah."

No one had expected Bobby to kiss him — Simon least of all, his face widening in shock as Bobby grabbed at his jaw and pulled him down to meet his lips. John and Ororo shared a look of silent incredulity, Ororo mouthing 'what the fuck', John answering with a shrug. Bobby pulled away, a smile on his face, patting at Simon's chest.

"Wanted to see what all the hype was about."

Simon rolled his eyes, resuming their slow walk back to Bobby's car, parked a little down the road.

"And?" John followed, interested.

"I've had better."

"Wow," Simon said, "After all I did for you tonight."

They managed to get to the car eventually, Simon bundling Bobby into the passenger seat, turning to lean against the doorframe, the four of them watching guests stream out of the house, leaving behind the ruins of the party. A few of Simon's friends — the four who John had observed as realization came upon them — stood off to one side, one catching his eye, gesturing for him to make his way over to them. He felt Simon tense, watching Ororo reach for him, lacing their fingers together.

"Come on. I'll go with you. You don't have to be alone."

Simon nodded at her, the two of them making their way over to the group, John watching all the while. He saw them embrace him, watched their faces grow apologetic as they spoke, saw Simon hunch in on himself as tears overtook him. He fell into their arms, a group of football guys — all muscle and bravado and too-loud laughter — reduced to a blubbering huddle, Ororo left to one side, filming them surreptitiously on her phone. John was pulled back to himself by a tug on the hem of his shirt, turning around to meet Bobby's face. He watched John sheepishly, his voice quiet, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

"I wanna go home."

John nodded, shutting the door, coming around to the driver's side, Bobby greeting him with a broad smile as if it were the first time he had seen him all night. John started the car, beginning to fill in Bobby's address into his GPS, unsure of the route home from the house.

"Did you tell your mom that we're on the way?"

Bobby shook his head, his face pulling down into a pout as he directed his best puppy eyes in John's direction.

"Wanna stay with you."

John chuckled, sighing as he leaned over to kiss him.

"Of course. Let's go."

They left the crowd behind, silence falling around them once again as they slipped into the night, Bobby quickly dozing off, his head against the window, his boozy breath fogging up the glass.

At a red light, John reached for him, his palm warm and flat against his stomach, stroking his thumb across his skin once, before setting off again.


	8. Interlude: After The Afterparty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude featuring our side characters.

**Jean and Ororo: Girls Night Out**

_ Where are you? _

Ororo stared at the message, incredulous that Jean would even have the nerve to ask her that.

They had arrived at the party not long after nine, most of the guests already there and tipsy, if not outright messy. She, Bobby and John had made a beeline for the liquor in the kitchen, with Jean wandering off alone to find her man, to introduce him to the group. They had waved her off, expecting her to return shortly after, and yet she never had. As Bobby had dragged John off to meet his friends, in plain ignorance of the look of pure unease that twisted John's features, Ororo had drifted around the room, catching up with her girlfriends, the rush of their excitement briefly distracting Ororo from looking out for Jean's distinctive hair among the bobbing heads.

"Hi bestie!" she had been greeted with three voices in harmony as if they were on stage, piercing through the noise of the crowd, straight to her where she had stood, drink in hand, scanning the room. 

She had made her way through the thronged bodies towards them, stepping at one point over the slumped form of a basketball player she half-knew, who had tried at one point to get in her pants. They were installed, naturally, by the sound system, having persuaded David to let them have full control over the music for the night, allowing Kitty — Katie, the band's some-time drummer, some-time keyboardist, full-time producer — to flex her skills as a DJ. Judging by the small dancefloor which had manifested itself in one of the larger rooms — Ororo having wondered how big exactly the house  _ was  _ — she seemed to be doing a good job. 

"Oh my god the dolls are all here!" she had replied, returning Kitty's hug, extending a hand behind her back towards Olivia and her girlfriend JuJu — who, the first time Ororo had been introduced to her, had instructed her never to call her by her full, embarrassingly flowery, name of Jubilation. The two sat, as always, knitted together, Olivia's fingers winding through JuJu's short hair, her many rings glinting in the lights as they disappeared and reappeared amidst the strands dyed — for that week, at least — an almost neon electric purple.

"So," JuJu began, taking Ororo's hands in her own, "We have news."

"Are you sitting down?" Kitty asked, reaching for her shoulder, plainly aware that Ororo was not, in fact, sitting down.

Ororo brushed them both off impatiently, rolling her eyes at their mock-seriousness.

"What, what? One of you better not be pregnant."

"Explain that one to me, Einstein — two lesbians and the Ace of Spades here," Olivia said, hooking her thumb in Kitty's direction, "And you think someone's pregnant?"

"They've got IVF now, I don't know, bitch!"

"IVF in senior year, are you out of your mind? Do I look  _ that  _ desperate to be on Teen Mom to you?"

Ororo threw her palms to the ceiling in exasperation, a violent shrug, Kitty and JuJu in hysterics. 

"If you don't tell me your news in the next five seconds I'm gonna rip your earrings right out of your skull."

"I'd like to see you try, whore — they're clip-ons."

"We've got a gig!" Kitty exclaimed, cutting across Ororo's next remark, her eyes instead widening in shock, her mouth stretching into a wide smile as she let loose a scream-roar of pure excitement, gathering the three of them into a hug, totally unawares of everyone's eyes suddenly on the four of them huddled together. 

"When, when?" she demanded, her eyes flicking between them, their faces suddenly growing sheepish and embarrassed.

"Uhm… spring break…" JuJu said, Ororo's smile cracking slightly.

"What?"

"Well, so, like, we couldn't get any gigs until at least after Christmas because of holiday stuff — you know Kitty always goes to Arizona with her parents for her racist grandma's annual gathering," Olivia explained, Kitty staring into the middle distance, already attempting to devise ways to slip out and away from her familial responsibilities. "And so we knew it had to be in the New Year, but then school starts again, so we ended up deciding on Spring Break, since everyone is definitely free."

"Right, right, I guess that makes sense. And where is it?"

She almost groaned in disappointment as their faces fell further, dreading their response.

"So, it's… umm… You know that town up North, by the lake?"

"Rochester?"

JuJu's face went red as she shook her head.

"Umm… little bit further down the highway. It doesn't matter, we'll send you the details. It's cute! It's a resort town, I guess, I dunno."

"Listen," Kitty added, leaning in close, "They were the only ones who would book us, and they're paying cash, so we're taking it "

Ororo nodded in acquiescence, palms raised.

"It's fine."

"You should bring Jean!" Olivia said, her fingers flapping in Ororo's face, her rings jangling, "And the boys — Bobby and… what's his name. His boyfriend but he's not but he is."

"John."

"Sure! That sounds right."

"You can make a whole thing of it!" JuJu added, following Olivia's thread, "Spend a long weekend up there or something, go see the lake, and stuff."

JuJu's voice trailed off as she spoke, the three of them suddenly deflating as the excitement at their first real opportunity began to become increasingly more of a hassle for all involved. Ororo, not wanting to bring them down, smiled in encouragement.

"I'll talk to them, I think they'd be down!"

"Where is Jean anyway? Bobby's dragging his man all over the place like he's showing off a tattoo, but I haven't seen our resident abstinence captain the whole night."

Ororo laughed along with them, despite her gut roiling momentarily with unease.

"Girl I don't even know, she went off with her boy somewhere, she said she was gonna bring him back and introduce him to us all, so I guess we'll see her soon."

She had shrugged, the other three nodding along, descending into conversation about their gig — potential setlists, which covers to do, outfits, hair, makeup, transport. Ororo felt herself grow buoyant in their energy, her earlier sensation of fear ebbing away to something more gentle, easily suppressed at the back of her throat. She assumed Jean would come back, would reappear with some gormless football player on her arm, and all would be well.

Yet, she had never resurfaced. Ororo had finally caved and texted her, just to see where she had gotten to — the house was big, but it wasn't exactly a labyrinth, all things considered. She had gotten a swift, although short reply — five words.

_ Sorry. Upstairs with the boy. _

That had been enough for Ororo, who had smiled to herself, sending her a thumbs up, forgetting about her absence right up until Bobby had his meltdown. Standing away from him, watching him pull and snarl against his friends' arms like a dog on a chain, she had practically blown up Jean's phone, begging her to come down, to help her. There had been no response. She hadn't even read the texts. It had filled her with an indescribable, hard to place anger, that Jean would ignore what was going on, would ignore  _ Ororo  _ , in favour of some boy's half-hearted missionary position above the covers with the lights on bullshit. In the aftermath of Bobby's confrontation, as John had driven off with him — Bobby sat in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on him with such a look of intense adoration that Ororo almost felt tears well up — Jean came back, her shoulders hunched, her face dark, and approached Ororo, who was stood by Simon and his still-sobbing friends, watching one of them slowly coax him further and further into what looked outwardly to be a loving embrace. Her suspicions were confirmed as she watched him gently kiss Simon's forehead, his eyes catching hers briefly as they darted around — as if checking that they weren't being observed. She had smiled at him, throwing him a wink, before turning to Jean. She felt the flare of anger once again, its sudden intensity dimming as Jean's face came further into focus, her eyes still red, her makeup smudged and running.

"Where have you been, Jeanie?"

Ororo bundled her into her arms, Jean leaning heavily on her, her voice tight.

"I told you. Upstairs."

"But, what happened? Why were you crying? Did he do something? Did-"

"Ororo. Enough, please."

Ororo held her mouth shut, stopping the flow of her words, her heart still racing. She had never, in ten years of knowing her, seen Jean cry. She was always quick to anger when they were children — the first one to kick out at a boy's knees when he would pull her hair, the first one to throw a punch back, to pull and scratch and bite. She had mellowed out as they got older, but Ororo knew she was a firecracker, waiting to blow. So strange was it then, seeing her defeated, seeing her curled in on herself. It weighed heavily in Ororo's mind, thrumming with an incalculable number of potential causes, none of them pleasant.

"You can stay with me tonight."

"You don't have to-"

"Jean," Ororo said, pulling her upwards to meet her eyes with a palm on her cheek, "That wasn't a question."

Jean sighed, nodding, pulling herself out of Ororo's arms, the two walking hand in hand to Ororo's car — rather, her father's car, which he had let her borrow for the night, to spare himself the headache of being woken up by Jean's rust bucket in the early hours of the morning.

"Can you please just tell me if he hurt you, or anything? I'm freaking out, Jeanie."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. No, no, I'm fine — physically. He didn't even touch me — not for very long, anyway."

"What do you-"

"It's a long story. A really long story. Can it wait 'til we're home?"

Ororo placed a hand on Jeans thigh, nodding silently. Jean placed her own palm over it, squeezing once. They set off, Jean's eyes locked on the road ahead, her jaw set as her mind worked behind the scenes, her face carefully neutral, although bordering on hurt. They passed through the silent streets in a blur, little to no traffic interrupting them. In the glow of the traffic lights, Jean's hair was set aflame — more so than usually, at least — the ghost-white pallor of her skin even more pronounced in the semi-darkness. Ororo was nervous, biting on her nails, working herself out of the too-tight jacket she had worn to the party in an effort to impress. It had gone down well, with a number of inappropriate and lecherous glances thrown her way — rebuffed cooly and mysteriously, naturally — but it was simply too much to keep on once the festivities were well and truly over. She tossed it behind her, leaving her freezing in her tank top, although at least able to breathe. She caught Jean looking at her as they stopped at a light, meeting her with a tilt of the head.

"Can I help you?"

"You didn't wear a bra tonight."

Ororo's eyes narrowed.

"Uhh, no? Why would I?"

"No reason. It's just, well…" 

She inclined her head to Ororo's chest, watching her look down at herself. Ororo gasped in embarrassment, her hand rising to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose as she laughed at herself. 

"It's cold!" she exclaimed, in self defense.

"You could hang a painting off them, babe."

"Fuck off."

Jean laughed along with her, the knot in Ororo's chest loosening as Jean's face creased once more in familiar joy, her nose wrinkling as she snorted involuntarily, sending Ororo into further spasms. The interior of the car was filled with them, with their sparkling voices, one of their few times alone together without the boys in a long, long time. Although she would never say it out loud because it would send him down a dark spiraling path from which he would likely never return, Ororo occasionally missed when it had just been her and Jean together. There was something different about growing up with someone, about being with someone through every major event in their life, that left you closer. 

The thought of it left her ambivalent — almost in tears at how much she loved Jean, how happy she was that they had stayed friends, while also feeling the twisting pull of guilt in her guts, that she would leave John, or Bobby for that matter, at the wayside.

She took out her phone, shooting John a text, just to remind herself that he was as much in her heart as Jean.

_ Hi _

_ Did you get home okay _

He responded quickly, which she hoped meant he was home, and not at the side of the road rubbing circles into Bobby's back as he threw up.

_ We're home _

_ Bobby is a mess _

_ In a good way, if that's possible _

_??? _

_ He's just clingy _

_ More than usual, anyway _

_ He wants to talk to you but I'm not letting him _

_ You don't need that _

_ Did Jean ever come back _

_ She's driving me atm _

_ Something went down, idk what _

_ She was crying _

_ Is she okay??? _

Ororo could hear him through his words, could practically see the concern written plainly across his face. It soothed her guilt, quietened the painful hum in the back of her mind, to know that he cared as much as she did, that the gulf of time that separated his relationship with the two of them from their own with each other had no effect on their closeness. Privately, she wondered if she wasn't drunker than she thought, so prone as she seemed to excessive bouts of contemplation on her friendships. 

_ I dunno yet _

_ She's fine, but I just don't know the whole story _

_ Lmk if everything is okay _

_ I will _

_ Love you _

_ Love you too  _

_ Tell Bobby we said night night _

_ I won't _

_ He'll want to call you or something _

There was a pause as Ororo and Jean arrived at her place, the two of them slinking as quietly as possible to her room, passing by her father's open door — inside which he lay, snoring loudly enough to rattle the whole house. Checking her phone as she collapsed into her chair, Jean tiptoeing to the bathroom, she spied John's last few messages, chuckling to herself.

_ Girl _

_ He's so fucking much to handle _

_ I've never had this much trouble getting him in bed before _

He had sent her a final picture — he and Bobby together, John grinning at the camera, Bobby flashing his teeth wide and bright, their heads close, John's arm around Bobby's neck, Bobby's draped over his chest. He attached a caption —  _ mission accomplished _ — and that was the last she heard of them. Jean returned from the bathroom, her makeup removed, her hair up in a ponytail, in the process of removing her jewellery, stowing it away in the pockets of her jacket. Ororo found herself staring, just observing her movements, Jean eventually looking up to her, her face inquisitive.

"May I help you?"

"Just watching."

"Weirdo." 

Jean flopped down beside her on the bed with a thump, the covers puffing beneath her. She lay flat on her stomach, hands up at either side of her head, which lay tilted towards Ororo. Ororo laid on her back, eyes to the ceiling, fingers knotted across her ribs. They were quiet, listening to one another breathing, Jean walking a pair of her fingers across Ororo's collarbone and down her chest as if they were a pair of legs. They each watched their progress, their finger-steps drawing out giggles from Ororo as they passed over and pressed into sensitive spots. They came to a halt at Ororo's hands, Jean dropping her act, opting instead to lace their fingers together. Ororo met her eye finally, the two of them shuffling onto their sides to face one another.

"Can you talk to me now, please?"

"Can it wait until we're comfortable? I'm not having a heart to heart when we're both still wearing jeans." 

Ororo rolled her eyes, but relented, swinging herself off of the bed and over to her closet. As she undressed, leaning downwards to pull her legs out of her pants, she spied Jean watching her, their gazes meeting briefly in her closet mirror. Feeling some foreign sensation bloom in her chest, Ororo righted herself, slipping into her sleeping clothes — a pair of men's shorts she had bought in bulk, and an oversized t-shirt formerly belonging to her father, a relic of his college football days, the logo long since faded. 

"Do you need PJs?"

"Please," Jean responded, a shiver in her voice as she was confronted suddenly by the chill in the room.

Ororo tossed her some clothes of her own, her eyes on the darkness of her closet as she listened to the rustle of fabric behind her.

"You can turn around now, Prudence, my sinful body is clothed once more."

Ororo shut the closet doors, sidling in beside Jean, their arms above the covers, hands joined. Each laid on their back, Jean hooking a foot around Ororo's under the blanket, settling with a sigh.

"I broke up with Scott tonight."

"Oh," Ororo said, her tone not entirely sympathetic.

"Is that all you've got?"

"I never even met him, Jean — I don't really have any reference."

"Wait," Jean said, her face turning roughly to face Ororo, her hair dragging along the fabric, leaving static trapped between the strands, "What do you mean you never met him?"

"You never brought him around! I thought we were gonna see him tonight but — nada."

"I meant to," she went on, trailing off weakly as the realization dawned on her, "But he sort of dragged me over to his friends and then we lost track of time and all of a sudden we're upstairs."

"Had you two been together long? Officially."

"Couple months, maybe. We had kind of an on and off thing during the summer. We met at that camp I did up at the lake. We were both in charge of the middle school kids, and we just got to know each other. He's sweet. He's very… uhh… I dunno — retro, maybe?"

"So he's racist?"

"Oh my god," Jean replied, batting at Ororo's arm as they hastily stifled their laughter to avoid disturbing her father. It was pointless — if he could sleep through his own snoring, nothing could possibly wake him. 

"What  _ do  _ you mean by that, then?"

"He's just like, proper, I guess. He holds doors open for you, he gives you his jacket when it's cold. I dunno. He's nice. My dad probably would have liked him, if it had ever gone there."

"Jean I'm not gonna lie to you that made me wanna throw up a little."

"Don't give me that — I know what kind of guy you like. You want a guy who wears a gold chain so when he fucks you it dangles in your face the whole time."

"It makes me feel  _ alive  _ , Jean," Ororo replied, reverence her voice, her fingers clenched in a chef's kiss pose high above them.

"You're insane."

"Whatever. So, what, he seems nice, what went wrong?"

Jean shifted, uncomfortable where she lay, tipping onto her side. Ororo matched her, the two of them close, speaking quietly.

"Well, we went upstairs — he had been touching up on me all night, it only got more persistent as he drank. It wasn't a bad thing, but it was pretty clear where things were going."

"And you didn't want to?"

"Well, not exactly. I thought I did. We got to one of the bedrooms, and well… things started going where they were going. He was kissing me, and I just… I didn't feel it. There was nothing. No pull. No excitement. The whole thing felt like I was following a script — he even fumbled up my bra so bad I had to do it for him. He laid me down and he looked in my eye and he just stopped. He said — 'Jean, you're not into this at all, are you?'"

"He just asked you that flat out?"

Jean nodded, continuing.

"I almost laughed when he said it. It was just so blunt. And he was mostly kinda drunk by that point but he wasn't messy or anything. I told him no, I wasn't and he just stopped. Can you believe that? He didn't even try to pressure me a little bit!"

"A saint amongst men."

"And so, we both got dressed, and we sort of sat and talked for all that time. I broke up with him kind of early into it. It made me cry, doing it. Like, full-on, bawling tears streaming down my face crying. He held me while I did it, which felt wrong — I was the one who called it all off, who pulled the rug out from under him. But no, he sat there and he waited until I could talk again, and then we did."

"And what did you say?"

"Ororo… I really don't think…"

"Jean," she said, turning to face her fully, one hand on the side of her face to force them into eye contact, "I've known you most of my life — since we were little kids terrorizing the playground. You know damn well there's nothing you could say to me that would-"

Jean cut her off with the sudden press of her lips to Ororo's, the latter's eyes blown wide in shock, her breath caught in a stutter in her chest. Her whole body tensed on itself, her mouth unable to respond, incapable of doing anything but lying stock still as Jean held her for a moment before pulling away. Ororo stared at her, her stomach heaving as she breathed, Jean's face completely unreadable.

"Well, that explains some things."

"Are you okay? Was that-"

Ororo continued as if Jean hadn't spoken, her eyes trained on a spot over her shoulder.

"Mostly why you keep making us watch Cate Blanchett movies all the time. Or that French one with the chainsaw."

"Ororo."

"Or when we went rollerblading that one time and that girl with the buzzed undercut kept looking at you like she knew something."

"I'm gonna fucking stab you I swear to God."

Ororo sighed, returning her gaze to Jean's, who watched her half in plain annoyance, half in fear of some retribution.

"Can you relax? This isn't my first time making out with a girl."

"It's not?"

"No! Of course not! Don't you remember when we went to that party two years ago, for that girl's sweet sixteen? Vanessa, remember? Her mom knew John's aunt and he got invited so we all went."

"Vaguely."

"Yeah, so, turns out Vanessa is a big ol' lesbian and she musta got some vibes off me because next thing I knew she was asking me to help her get out of her dress and into her pants and one thing leads to another and we're making out in her room."

Jean stared at Ororo blankly, her mind whirring behind her eyes. Quietly, she was a little angry, a little annoyed by how easily Ororo was able to contend with her own apparent circumstances, while Jean had been left floundering some boy's arms not hours before, questioning herself and cursing her inscrutable desires.

"I can't stand you."

"Good thing we're lying down then."

"Fuck off."

Ororo softened, finally able to bring her hands flat against Jean's cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. She felt Jean scoot closer, their legs twisting around one another, her stomach rising to meet Ororo's as they breathed. 

"It's okay, Jean — I'm here."

"I think… I think I might be a lesbian."

"You might?"

Jean sighed, almost pulling away from Ororo before relenting and nodding.

"I am — I  _ am  _ a lesbian."

"Look, it's no pressure to put a label on it — maybe you're somewhere in the middle like me — it's just… you know. You don't have to lie — to me, or to yourself, yeah? Not anymore."

Jean moved into her then, pulling her into a hug, Ororo crushed against her tiny frame — all bones and angles and milk-soft skin. Working her own arms around her, they waited like that for some time, until Jean's eyes stopped watering, until Ororo could fully examine the tingling at the base of her spine which had begun to flow out to her extremities. As they pulled away, Jean sniffling a laugh, Ororo leaned into her once again, their lips meeting — more softly, more purposefully, than before. Jean fought with herself — longing to give in and let Ororo lead the way, while some part of her lingered uneasily at the sidelines, unwilling to dive headlong into her desire. She spoke against Ororo's lips, her words interrupted by the grazing of her tongue along her bottom lip, vying for access.

"Ororo… you don't have to… if it's weird…"

"It's only weird cuz you won't kiss me back — get into it."

Jean shook her head, Ororo chuckling breathily at her, the two of them finally deepening the kiss, Ororo's hands moving under her shirt to trace lines across her ribs, down her stomach, up her spine to tangle in her hair. Although muffled, Ororo was attentive to the sounds Jean let out — tiny gasps as Ororo's nails would drag along her stomach, furtive, almost confused, moans as they would press together, unfamiliar sensations flickering through her body like electric shocks.

"You're very good at this," she said, Ororo moving down to kiss at her neck, "This can't be your first time."

"Jean," she replied, pausing mid-sentence to suck hard on Jean's shoulder, enough for her to exhale roughly above her, "You  _ know  _ this isn't my first time."

"I meant with a girl."

Ororo rolled her onto her back, pushing up Jean's shirt until it came over her head, running her tongue from her throat to her navel. She paused at the waistline of her shorts, her fingers curling under the fabric, her head resting on Jean's heaving stomach.

"Well. Not exactly. I've never been with a girl. But I have experience down there, at least."

"I'm not following here," Jean replied, her limbs splayed wide, incapable of anything but staring at the ceiling as her mind attempted to process the barrage of complicated sensations and feelings burning their way through her.

"Look, I don't wanna give away his tea but I've been with a trans guy, so…"

"Oh shit, your weed guy! You never told me you guys fucked!"

"Apparently I never told anyone, cuz John didn't know either, and those two fuck all the time."

"Right," Jean trailed off, contemplating the mechanics of Ororo and John and their dealer all having sex, separately, yet intimately connected nonetheless.

"So, all I'm saying is I know what I'm doing here. Just lay back and let me make you feel good, okay?"

Jean nodded, finally calm enough to look down at her, Ororo flashing her a smile, Jean returning it, warmth spilling throughout her center. 

It was only afterwards, lying in Ororo's arms, the two of them heavy with sleep, that she was able to say anything. Her words came slowly to her, rough in her mouth, in her mind. She almost said nothing — almost waited for Ororo to drift off, allowing her to postpone their conversation until Jean could gather her thoughts entirely. Yet, she remained awake, trailing her fingers through Jean's hair as she waited silently for her to figure herself out.

"I don't want to date you, Ororo."

"I know. I don't want to date you either, no offense."

"I dunno if I would do this again — with you at least — but I'm not entirely against it."

"I understand. Don't push yourself. I'm here if you need, if you want — but otherwise this can just be a one-off. No need to tell the boys, either — this can just be you and me and no one else, alright?."

Jean shook her head, her face pinched on itself as she buried it into Ororo's hair.

"I love you so much, thank you for being so amazing to me. I really don't know how this would have gone down if I didn't have you here."

"Are you talking about the sex or the steadfast compassion in your time of need?"

"I take it all back — die in a hole."

"It's okay, Jeanie. You're my best friend — what else was I supposed to do?"

They slept entwined, Jean curled up at Ororo's back, arms around her stomach, her body entirely at ease.

Ororo shifted once in the night, turning herself over to envelop Jean in her arms, the bright flame of her hair blazing against Ororo's skin in the darkness.

She kissed her once, a loving press of lips to her forehead, and was still.

* * *

**Simon: Boom Clap**

"So, you're gay."

It was the first thing either of them had said since leaving the party, since Simon had gotten himself back under his careful control, still sniffling on occasion as the aftershock of a sob ran through him. Isaac had offered to let him stay at his house, which was far closer to David's than Simon's own. They had split off from the group, who remained behind to confront the rest of the team who hadn't yet emerged from the house, who had stayed behind to deal with Eric and his potential concussion. Simon wondered what would happen. Was that it — secret exposed, his life ruined? Going off of the support of the guys who had come to join him on the lawn — most of them even more distraught than Simon, their faces contorted in guilt and sympathy, wailing in his ears as they threw themselves around him in a huddle, a protective circle to hold him close — he would be fine, sure that he would come out of the night with at least some of his friendships intact. Despite the crush of bodies as they had huddled together, Simon had been aware of a pair of arms, not draped over his shoulders or supporting his lower back, but twined around his waist, the pressure lighter than the others, more tentative. He had been aware of a voice in his ear, soft, barely audible against the cries roaring above and around him, mumbling to him, the meaning lost in the tumult. As he had extricated himself from the group, those arms had been the last to fall away, his eyes coming to rest on Isaac's, his own face looking to Simon's with a mixture of trepidation and pure, undisguised want. It had clicked then — John's story about the other on the team who he had known, who had gone through a similar experience as Simon, the year before.

Simon had accepted his offer to sleep at Isaac's house hastily, eager to speak with him, and so they had gone, Isaac fending off the others with gentle assurances that Simon would be okay, that he had his back.

Isaac's words had drawn Simon back to reality, back to the two of them and their unsteady footsteps on the cracked concrete. It was freezing, the two of them huffing clouds of misty breath, Isaac shivering on occasion, his frame — thicker than Simon, shorter, a cannonball to Simon's rocket — rattling, the quake of his bones almost audible.

"I am, yeah. I didn't… I didn't know how to tell anyone — I didn't want to. I was afraid."

"I guess you were right to be, given how things turned out tonight."

"I guess."

Catching the fall in his tone, Isaac nudged him with his shoulder, knocking Simon off balance, his face wide in mock-outrage. He shouldered him back, the two of them left tussling back and forth along the sidewalk, eventually calming, stray laughter still spilling out into the night.

"I don't think the rest of the team feels the same way as Eric, Si."

"I dunno."

"No, I'm telling you they don't. You saw their faces while he was saying all that shit to that Bobby kid. If you hadn't pulled your punch, it woulda been one of them."

Simon shuddered out a sigh, shrugging.

"We'll know all about it at school, I guess."

Isaac stopped suddenly, planting his feet, grabbing for Simon's hand, their fingers weaving together, Simon staring at them where they hung in the space between their bodies. Looking upwards, he met Isaac's gaze, the two of them halted in the street, Isaac's face firmly set. After some moments had passed, Simon found himself confused — he had expected Isaac to kiss him, it being the obvious next step in the night's chain of events. Watching Isaac's face, his eyes rolling over his features, Simon could see the conflict under his skin, could see the hand Simon wasn't holding twitching as he fought with himself. He took matters — and Isaac's face — into his own hands, pulling him in, grinning at the sigh that escaped from Isaac as their lips came together. He held him for a moment, their noses brushing one another ticklishly, the two of them falling away in quiet laughter, Isaac left staring at Simon, his face looking as though it might crack at any moment.

"Simon…" 

His voice was a whisper, a grip on Simon's wrist holding his palm to his face. Simon nodded, leaning forward to kiss him again, softly.

"It's okay. I know," he said, his lips brushing Isaac's with every word.

"How?"

Simon grinned against him, Isaac becoming lost in the feeling of their stubble catching on one another's skin.

"You know John, right?"

Simon felt Isaac's face grow warm, his head ducking down in embarrassment.

"He told you about me."

"Not by name, but he said he knew a guy on the team who went through what I was going through this year. Never thought it would be you, Izzy, I always pegged you as a ladies man."

Isaac snorted, shaking his head as they separated and started walking again.

"I've wanted you to peg me since the first day of football tryouts, Si."

Isaac's voice was quiet, his words barely an embarrassed mumble, Simon throwing his head back in laughter and an arm around his shoulder, knocking their heads together.

"Is that right?"

"Big time. I always had a thing for you. Then when that thing with Kevin happened last year, I figured you were definitely off-limits, that it was no use trying. Not long after that, me and John met up. You shoulda seen his face when I pulled up to get him — I think he thought it was a prank, that I was gonna jump him."

"And you two don't do anything anymore, right?"

"Nah. I asked him if he maybe wanted to date or something but he turned me down. I kinda lost interest after that — I'm not really into all the casual stuff, y'know?"

Simon nodded along, humming thoughtfully.

"Been thinking a lot about that myself lately — about dating, and stuff. John and I fuck around a couple times a month still, but it's just sex, nothing else. For a while there, I caught myself falling for him. Then the last couple of weeks he's been doing more and more with Bobby — I don't even see him on the apps anymore. I asked him out once too, same story as you — but I wonder now if maybe he said no just because he had something else?"

"You think he and Bobby are together like that?"

"He says they're not — they both say they're not — but you've seen them. Bobby walked in on me and John earlier tonight."

He felt Isaac tense beside him, guilt warming his face. 

"What… what was going on?"

"I just went in to get another drink and he was in there on his own. He didn't wanna be at the party — he wasn't in the mood, and I could tell. I tried to loosen him up a little, or at least that's what I thought. I was being a creep, a fuckin' creep, that's all."

Simon's tone grew bitter, his fist clenching at his side, his eyes on his feet.

"You didn't-"

"No, no, not like that. I was just being pushy, and wanted him to relax. Bobby walked in on us though, and he wasn't happy. I heard them arguing about it after."

"And then Bobby came back into the room with a face like thunder. And then, Eric."

Simon groaned at the name, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"Fuck! This is going to be so bad, isn't it?"

"Relax," Isaac replied, a hand on Simon's back, warmth spreading diffuse through him, "It's gonna be okay, Simon, I promise. Everyone is on your side. Look, we're almost at my place. We can get you to bed then, we can leave all this shit behind, alright?"

Simon sighed, nodding. Isaac made to remove his hand from around his back, halted by Simon's grip on his wrist, holding him there, their eyes meeting briefly. They shared a smile, Isaac nodding, the two of them moving off down the rest of the short path to Isaac's house.

The front face of the house was in darkness as they arrived, Simon untangling himself from their embrace as Isaac fumbled with cold, nervous fingers at the front door. It stayed quiet for them as they entered — no squeak in its hinges, no deafening clatter as it shut. The television was on in the front room, Isaac gesturing for Simon to go upstairs while he dealt with it. He nodded, plodding up as silently as possible, almost tripping on the splayed foot of Isaac's dog, whom he had met several times and who seemed to love him the most out of anyone who visited the house. He remained sleeping, undisturbed by Simon, who continued on his way. 

He ducked into Isaac's bedroom, having only visited it once or twice — on each occasion far, far, drunker than he was that night. He looked around, suddenly uncomfortable in the space as his and Isaac's relationship was suddenly restructured. He thought about those previous nights as he undressed, him passed out next to Isaac, the two of them waking up tangled in one another. Once, he recalled rising to Isaac curled up against him, snoring into his neck, drool pooling on his pillow, just behind Simon's ear. In the moment he had thought nothing of it — just another heterosexual comfortable enough to cuddle with his friends. In the soft light of the moon, beneath those same thin sheets, his lips still buzzing from Isaac's kiss, things felt entirely different. Outside, he could hear him shuffling slowly up the stairs, the steps of another at his side. As they passed his door, he caught Isaac's voice, low, his smile audible.

"Come on, Mama, you're almost there."

Simon knew all about Isaac's Mom. She worked high-intensity shifts as a nurse, and often fell asleep in front of the TV, Isaac waking some mornings with it having played the entire night as she snored in front of it. He had made it a habit as he had grown older, stronger, to bring her upstairs, unwilling to let her sit and destroy her back or her neck on their lumpy couch. It was a point of pride for him, Simon knew, to be the man around the house, seeing as his actual Dad wasn't with them any longer. Simon never found out if he was dead, or just a deadbeat — he and Isaac never close enough for that information to be shared.

He listened out for the sound of the other bedroom door, Isaac returning shortly, surprise darting across his features as he took in Simon where he laid.

"I see you made yourself at home."

Simon shrugged, watching Isaac's eyes flit to the pile of Simon's clothes — underwear included — resting on his computer chair. He nodded, turning away from Simon, fishing around in his closet for a moment, before sighing, and hanging his head. Simon regarded his back casually, head resting on a crooked elbow.

"We're not having sex tonight," Isaac said, finality in his tone.

"Okay, works for me."

"There's too much shit going on in my head, I can't. And I don't want you to feel like-"

"I already said it's okay, Izzy. Will you please just come to bed?"

Isaac laughed once, shaking his head, pulling his t-shirt up and over his shoulders. Simon watched his skin reveal itself from beneath the fabric — it was lighter than his own, but not by much. It looked soft, Simon's hand at his side twitching involuntarily, willing him to reach out. Isaac looked over his shoulder as his hands moved to the buttons of his jeans, his face almost stern.

"Some privacy?"

"Nothing I've never seen before in the locker room, Isaac. Besides," he added, throwing back the covers, "You're not the only one."

Isaac's eyes widened at the sight of Simon bare under the moonlight, his eyes following the lines of his body to where they disappeared into the shadow of the comforter. He swallowed, pulling himself out of his jeans, taking a few tentative steps towards him.

"All of it, Izzy."

He rolled his eyes, the two of them grinning, and removed his own underwear, flinging them at Simon's head, who caught them, dropping them gently to the floor. He splayed his arms wide in welcome, Isaac falling into them, allowing Simon to pull him in, to drape the covers over the two of them. 

"Do you maybe wanna go on a date some time?" Isaac asked, his gaze locked on his finger drawing a circle in Simon's chest hair.

"Sure. How's tomorrow?"

Isaac rolled his eyes, looking up to meet Simon's face, surprised at its intensity.

"Simon… you don't have to-"

"No? You don't wanna maybe go get food somewhere for breakfast — or lunch, if we're realistic — and then come home with me to my empty house and…" 

He trailed off, running his finger in a line down Isaac's body, from the tip of his nose, down across his parted lips, swirling briefly in a figure eight around his chest, trailing off down his stomach.

"Are you… are you serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

"Simon… I just… please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't wanna just fuck around. I want something real."

"Am I not real? Am I not here with you right now? Can't you feel me?" 

Simon grabbed him by the wrist, dragging his palm across his body, holding Isaac's hand over his heart.

"Fuck," Isaac breathed, his eyes welling up again, "Simon… please tell me this isn't just the booze talking."

"Baby, I haven't had a drink in like three hours. I'm practically sober right now."

"Okay. Okay, yeah. We can do tomorrow."

They broke into laughter, stifled so as not to wake Isaac's mom, the two of them shuffling closer into their embrace. 

"Simon?" Isaac said, almost at the edge of sleep, his eyes heavy.

"Hmm?"

"I know I said I didn't want to have sex… but, can I maybe just touch it? I just wanna know."

Simon huffed a laugh into his hair, shrugging.

"Go 'head."

Isaac reached for him beneath the covers, Simon's breath hissing through his teeth.

"What's wrong?"

"Your hand is freezing."

"Shut up."

Isaac ran his fingers up Simon's length tentatively, his mouth leveling out into a slightly slack grin, Simon watching him interestedly.

"How is it?"

"It's pretty good. I should probably stop before this turns into something."

"That's what I said to myself before I kissed you earlier, and look where we are."

"You think you're funny, huh? Goofy ass."

Isaac relinquished his hold, resting his hand on Simon's hip, bringing himself to sit under his chin, Simon kissing the top of his head.

"Go to sleep, bitch."

"Kiss me again, then I will."

Simon obliged him, as he knew he would.

They slept soundly, Simon pressed close at Isaac's back, the two of them snoring gently, hands entwined over Isaac's heart.


	9. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and John deal with the aftermath of the patty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter from the before times, and I've only got two more left to finish before we're done so you're getting this today!

"Johnny…" 

Bobby's voice was a sleeping murmur in the silent confines of the car, a smile on his face, his forehead pressed against the window, his sweat beading against the condensation of his breath.

John looked over to him, the two of them parked in his driveway, John not yet ready to attempt to wake him up and get him upstairs. It had been a quick drive, although John had spent most of it on the verge of tears, the night's events having finally caught up to him once the adrenaline of Bobby's outburst had left his system. Eric's — the guy's name, as John had found out from Simon in a text shortly after they had departed — words had cut through to John's heart, hurting a hell of a lot more than he would have expected them to. It wasn't unfamiliar territory, that word, or his particular brand of petty, vile insults. Rather, it had been the malicious conviction with which he had spoken, the self-assurance of someone who knew he was untouchable, by virtue of his cadre of friends who stood behind him like a solid wall of muscle and implied retaliative force. Perhaps it had been Bobby's visceral reaction which had left John shaken, his anger so pure and direct that it had reminded John of his own, all those years ago in his previous school. As the doors to the car had shut, as John had gotten them further and further from David's house, as Bobby had drifted off beside him, he had felt the pain of anxious fear ebb away, replaced by the calm which accompanied the presence of John's close circle. 

He sat back in the driver's seat, sighing, drumming his fingers along the wheel as he contemplated a cigarette. Looking over to Bobby, who seemed no closer to waking than he had since his eyes had fallen shut, he shrugged, fishing around in his pockets for his smokes. He rolled the window down, almost yelping at the sting of the air, sitting back as he puffed on the end of it, trailing smoke off with his breath in great grey clouds. Beside him, Bobby stirred, his nose sniffing like a dog's, his eyes blinking slowly awake as John watched him stretch himself upright. He regarded John with an out of focus gaze, his head still a little unsteady on his neck. His smile was broad though, John's heart warming at the sight of it.

"Hey, Johnny…" he drawled, as if surprised to see him, "Sorry for fallin' asleep on you."

"It's okay, Bobby, you had a rough night."

He watched Bobby's expression shift through confusion, into anger as he remembered Eric's taunts, before settling on a deep frown.

"He was so mean to me, Johnny."

"I know baby. It's okay, Simon beat him up, he won't be bothering you again."

Bobby's brow remained furrowed, his mouth drawn tight, his eyes elsewhere.

"It should have been me that hit him."

John shrugged, careful in his tone to keep Bobby from getting himself worked up again, so close as they were to getting to bed.

"Maybe. But you probably would have done too much damage to him, what with how strong you are."

He hoped the compliment would draw Bobby away from his anger and into something a little more manageable. 

"I am strong, you're right. I'm real strong."

His voice rose as he spoke, John slightly confused by where he was going. Before he could clarify, Bobby spoke up, deflating into himself.

"I got big so people like him would leave me alone."

"Hmm?" John replied, unsure of Bobby's meaning. He tapped the end of his cigarette against the ridge of the window, ash tumbling down to the concrete below. Bobby noticed the cigarette finally, reaching for it, John handing it over wordlessly, unwilling to even attempt to dissuade him. He watched Bobby take a pull, surprised at how natural it seemed, his eyes closing, his chest heaving with his inhale. He passed it back to John, letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a moment before he continued, his voice more lucid, less slurred than before, as if some combination of the smoke and the night air had sobered him up a little.

"I used to be real skinny, as a kid — just like fuckin' sickly and pale like one of them kids from that movie. You know the one, they're all in the big dining room eating or whatever and he goes and asks for more."

"Oliver?"

"Who's that?"

"It doesn't matter," John replied, waving him on to continue.

"Right. So yeah, people used to push me around, cuz they knew I couldn't fight back. One day — I was like, fourteen — I got it real bad. Shoved in a locker, bag stolen, the whole thing. I get home, and I lock myself in my room and I say, this is it, I've had enough."

John tensed in his seat, dreading where Bobby's story might end up.

"I started looking online for stuff about working out at home — weights, and exercises and diets and shit. When I turned fifteen, I begged my Dad to buy me a set — just like kettlebells, nothing serious. I spent the summer — every day for two hours — swinging those shits around the garage until I couldn't feel my limbs anymore. It took a while, but I started seeing progress eventually. It was about a year and a half before people started to notice. I turned sixteen, and I got a gym membership for my birthday, and that was that. Been lifting ever since, five days a week."

"That's impressive. I have a lot of respect for you, that you're able to put all that work in, on top of school."

"I guess. It's selfish in a way, isn't it? Like, I'm not gonna sit here and say that I don't like how I look — I got a list of guys on my phone who would disagree — but sometimes it makes me a little bitter. Like, do you really think we'd be sitting here right now if I didn't look like this? Be honest, would you have messaged me back?"

John swallowed, guilt clouding his features.

"I don't know, I can't say, since I only know you as you are."

"That's a bullshit answer and you know it, Johnny."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault — I mean that, it's not. It's the media, it's society, it's everything else. You told me the first night we met that you're not every guy's first choice when it comes to sex, so I know you know how I feel. I'm not mad at you."

Bobby reached for him, a hand warm on John's tensed thigh.

"I like you as you are, Bobby," he said, his voice quiet, the last dregs of his cigarette dangling forgotten from his fingers, "I wouldn't change you for anything."

"It's the same for me."

"I know."

"I know you know, but I want you to hear it anyway."

"Jean was worried about you the other day — when you crashed at mine after movie night. She asked me why you worked out so much, why you wore yourself out the way you did."

"She thought I had an eating disorder," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"How'd you-"

"She texted me the next day. I told her I was fine, but that I was real happy that she cared about me like that. I love her, Johnny."

His smile grew again, blooming across his face, reaching up to his eyes, John unable to keep himself from returning it.

"She loves you, Bobby. We all do."

"Where was she tonight? I didn't see her after she went looking for Scotty."

"I dunno. I texted Ororo, but she hasn't replied yet."

"Did you even meet Scott?"

John shook his head.

"You'd like him. He's real cool — he was my friend before the muscles and everything. He used to keep the bullies off my back, whenever he could."

"Maybe I'll see him soon."

Bobby nodded, shifting in his seat to lean into John, his drunken breath warm against his face. John watched him pull himself into focus, his eyes rolling in his head to fall upon John's lips. He held himself for a moment, as if unsure of his next move. John laughed quietly to himself, taking the lead, bringing their mouths together, Bobby humming against him in delight. The kiss was brief, Bobby pulling away, just enough to whisper in John's ear.

"Let's go inside."

John flicked away the end of his smoke, the two of them emerging into the night once again, hurrying to the door, Bobby's arm around John's waist. As they moved inside, he raised his finger to his lips, sending Bobby a pointed look. Bobby nodded, face grave as if it were his solemn duty to enter the house as quietly as possible, John rolling his eyes. Halfway to the stairs, the door safely closed behind them without incident, Bobby's stomach rumbled. John froze, turning to him, Bobby's face apologetic, looking at him from beneath his lashes. John shook his head, gesturing to the kitchen. They settled there, Bobby at the island, John standing in between his splayed legs, fingers digging into the material of his jeans, his thighs straining beneath.

"What do you want?"

"Uhh… some bread would be nice."

"You want toast maybe? I'm not just giving you plain bread."

Bobby nodded, presenting John once again with his puppy eyes, John already prepared to steel himself against Bobby’s undoubtedly sexual request.

"Can I have peanut butter on it please?"

He blinked, taking a moment to process his words, before shaking his head.

"We're all out, actually, sorry."

He frowned.

"That's okay," he said, sounding like it was anything but, "Just regular, I guess — since you hate me all of a sudden."

"Whatever you wish, Sir," John replied, pressing down on the toaster paddle, leaning against the counter, arms folded.

"Thank you, Johnny."

"You've been calling me that a lot tonight."

"Do you not like it?"

"It's fine, it's just… I dunno."

He shrugged, letting the matter drop as Bobby's toast popped, the clang of the springs enough to distract them both. He handed the plate to him, Bobby's eyes wide in sudden, ravenous hunger.

"I like calling you that," he said around a mouthful, "It's cute, it's like calling Jean, Jeanie."

"That's different though," he replied, his train of thought interrupted as Bobby gestured for him to take a bite of the toast. He shook his head, Bobby undeterred, practically jamming it between his lips. He relented, biting off a corner, surprised at how good it tasted, something in the texture or the heat or the flavour just hitting all of the marks at that time of night. He swallowed, continuing.

"You're the only one who calls me Johnny. Frances doesn't even call me that."

"That's because you're _my_ Johnny, duh."

John didn't respond, unwilling to confront the rush of colour to his face, or the firework display in the center of his chest. Mercifully, his phone buzzed in his pocket, offering him a vital distraction. He fished it out, checking the screen.

"It's Ororo. She wants to know if we got home okay."

"Is Jean with her? Are they home? Can I talk to them? Let's call them, we can both talk."

John held up his hand in an effort to calm Bobby, placing it warmly on his stomach as he typed out his responses.

"Cool it, buddy, we're not calling anyone."

"Meanie," he said, arms folded roughly across his chest as he allowed John to caress him, his nails gently scratching.

"Jean's with her. They're heading home. C'mon," he added, conscious of how late the hour was, "We gotta go to sleep, it's gonna be morning at this rate."

He turned, digging around in the fridge for a bottle of water for himself and Bobby, who reached for it, John shaking his head, inclining it towards the stairs.

"Gotta get to bed first, baby."

He pouted, but stood, trudging on ahead of John, his footsteps heavy, muffled by the thick carpet which both John and his aunt abhorred, but could never find the time to strip.

They made it to John's room without incident, Bobby halting himself suddenly, wheeling around.

"I gotta pee."

John jerked his head towards the corridor.

"Go. And be quiet."

He left John, traipsing exaggeratedly on his tiptoes to the bathroom, John watching after him with a pained, long-suffering expression. He sighed, sitting heavily on his bed, pulling his shoes off to free his toes. Letting the cool of the floor seep into the soles of his feet, he contemplated the night. It had been, unequivocally, a disaster on all fronts. He was happy to be home, happy to be in his space again. 

Happy to have Bobby with him.

He was interrupted in his thoughts once more by Ororo's text, letting him know they had gotten home. Bobby reentered as he was typing out his response, taking in John's form splayed out on the bed, still in his clothes. Out of the corner of his eye, just beyond his laser-focus on his screen, he could see Bobby undressing. His pants and underwear came off together, John trying desperately not to smile at the sight of him. His t-shirt followed, Bobby miraculously managing not to become entangled in it as he flung it across the room. He plodded over to John, standing over him, entirely naked, hands on his hips.

"I wanna lay down."

John watched him for a beat, before kicking himself up and off the bed, Bobby dashing to fill the space, pulling the covers over himself as he nestled into the warmth.

John stripped, but left his underwear on, out of some misplaced sense of modesty, Bobby holding him off with an outstretched arm.

"You're not allowed in unless it's all off, Johnny, you know the rules."

"What rules? This is my house."

"Please? It's better when we're both naked."

John rolled his eyes, sliding them off, Bobby meeting him with another wide grin, pulling back the covers to usher him under. They settled together, Bobby at his side, an arm across John's chest, his cheek resting on his shoulder.

"You're my favorite snuggle buddy."

"I'm gonna tell everyone you called me that."

"Do it, I'll tell them you loved it."

"Whatever. C'mon, lemme send a picture to the girls so they know we're okay."

He held his phone aloft, the flash almost blinding the two of them, Bobby's teeth reflecting the light back almost to the point of causing lens flare. He looked over it before he sent it off, to make sure they weren't too exposed, Bobby glancing at it from over his shoulder, his expression soft.

"Hey, can you send that to me too?"

"Why?"

"I like it."

John tapped away, Bobby's phone buzzing somewhere across the room from inside his jeans. They shared a glance, Bobby shrugging, the phone left undisturbed as Bobby cuddled ever closer into John's side.

"Thanks for taking me home, Johnny."

"Any time. You're always welcome in my bed."

Bobby laughed, quiet and warm and melodic in John's ears.

"If I wasn't so comfy, we could have sex."

"There's still time."

"Tomorrow morning, maybe. If you're nice to me."

"I'm always nice to you."

"I know."

Bobby kissed him, pushing himself up on his elbows to loom over John, bearing down upon him. John met his intensity with his own, his hands running up Bobby's arms, fingers splayed across his muscles as they strained beneath his skin. John attempted to introduce his tongue, Bobby keeping his lips firmly shut, shaking his head.

"Nuh uh," he said, his tone full of mock admonishment, "We're being good."

"I'd find that easier to believe if you weren't so hard down there," John replied, reaching beneath the covers to squeeze him once. Bobby laughed to cover up his groan, flopping back at John's side, his leg over John's own under the comforter.

"Let me go sleep," he mumbled, nuzzling into John's neck, smiling all the while, John captivated by the sight of him. He nodded, settling into his pillows, Bobby's breathing already deepening beside him, his features slipping into unconscious neutrality, his grin slack, his body totally at ease.

"G'night."

Something sat just beyond John's words — the urge to spill out over himself into new territory, for which he was still yet unprepared. He silenced his unspoken words with a kiss to Bobby's nose, right between his eyes, warming his suddenly-cold heart to the sound of his pleased sigh.

* * *

Bobby awoke — groggy, sour-tongued, his whole body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He was aware of a presence in the bed next to him — John's weight resting heavily against his side, the paunch of his stomach rising and falling against Bobby's hip, his breath tickling in his ear. He remembered falling asleep on his side, his neck still stiff from John's arm resting beneath it. They had moved in the night, evidently, Bobby having hefted his weight onto his back — taking a vast swathe of the covers with him in the process, twisting them between his limbs — John following, his face pressed against the side of Bobby's, parts of his body left bare, exposed to the cool air of the room. Bobby righted them, tucking him under, John humming dreamily beside him. He glanced at him, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through his body as his neck turned, taking in his features — his brow knit as if in frustration, or concentration, his lips just barely parted, the gentle slope of his nose, the minute beads of sweat catching in the meagre light of the morning. 

Bobby's arm rested around John's upper half, cradling him close into his body, his thumb drawing a line back and forth across the skin of John's arm. Beneath the tangled covers, John's hands rested around one of Bobby's thighs, the knuckles of one just barely brushing him where he was hard. He held himself as still as possible, enjoying the moment of closeness for what it was, untroubled by the complication of awareness — the slight distance they would put between one another while awake, as if a few inches of space would be enough to drain the tide of desire that had slowly risen, in Bobby at least, to fill his entire body whenever he was next to John. 

Silently, he stared at the ceiling, wondering when it would all come crashing down around him.

It was only a matter of time, surely, until John discovered the depths of Bobby's affection, until Bobby bore the fullness of his heart to him, and was turned away as John retreated into himself, away from him and what fragile facade they had constructed so far.

He felt something bloom and pulse in his chest, tears forming in his eyes, his breath escaping him in a rush through his nose as he attempted to calm himself. John stirred beside him, one hand moving up and down across his thigh, his voice quiet in Bobby's ear — still laden with sleep.

"It's okay baby," he mumbled, "You're home, he won't hurt you again. Go back to sleep."

Bobby swallowed hard as he waited for John to drift off again, his breathing deepening, his hand growing still. Even in his dreams, Bobby remained in his thoughts, his one priority. Comforting as it was to know that John cared for him, it did little to kill the unease in Bobby's mind. All it meant was that it would be harder when they eventually ended things, when they forced themselves apart, as Bobby found himself adrift not only from John, but inevitably from Jean and Ororo, to whom he had little claim than through John. He fought back the urge to cry, the whimper building at the back of his throat, the uneven rhythm of his lungs, the tears pricking at his lashes.

He turned his face to John's again, taking in his features, holding for a moment to make sure he was well and truly asleep.

He didn't need him to be awake for what was about to happen.

He leaned forwards, his lips pressing feather-light against his forehead, pulling back just as minutely to speak to him, his voice the barest whisper, softer than the sound of his breathing.

"I love you, John. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be like this."

He froze as John sighed beneath him, his hand moving to rake its way up Bobby's belly, his face nuzzling against his shoulder.

"Did you say something?" he asked, his voice scratchy, his back popping as he stretched, pressing himself ever closer to Bobby.

He scrambled internally, groping for an excuse in his mind, only static in the center of his head. He was aware of his own hardness, straining against the covers, and John's, digging into the side of his leg. He fought himself calm, brought his voice down and into John's ear, growling desire he only half felt, just to draw his mind out of the hole he had fallen into. 

"I was trying to get up, sorry. I gotta go to the bathroom."

"Oh, sorry," he replied, pulling himself away, Bobby quickly reeling him back in, his tongue grazing a line across his lips, John laughing sleepily along as he half-kissed him back.

"Maybe I could go get ready… we could-"

He trailed off, bringing his hand down around John's length, squeezing once, watching his face crease in a sleepy grin.

"You don't gotta, if it's a hassle — we can just do other stuff."

"I want to, though. It's been a while."

It had been a while, relatively speaking. Seven days was a long time, in some regards. John chuckled against him, placing a kiss on his cheek as he disentangled his limbs. Bobby stood, leaning down to brush his lips across his forehead, on his cheek, down his chest as he drew the covers away, freeing John from their heated confines. He waved him off, eyes closed the whole time, his voice calling to Bobby as his hand fell to the handle of the door.

"Wait — can you check if Frances' car is gone?"

Bobby padded across to the window, peering out at the driveway, where only his own car sat.

"We're good."

"Alright," John said, shuffling further into the sheets, drifting quickly back to sleep, leaving Bobby to watch over him, his heart thumping in his chest.

He stood in the bathroom for a while, just staring at himself in the mirror. He looked haggard, despite the general lack of a hangover. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was frazzled, his lips left cracked and dry as the alcohol in his system had siphoned away all of the water. He splashed water up into his eyes, working it over his skin as if it might wash away the grime of the previous night. That kid's words still rang in Bobby's mind, echoing over and over. It hadn't even been _that_ word which had affected him so much. It had been his insinuations beforehand — that he and John were together, that both of them were somehow lesser for it. Already in a thorny mood from his and John's argument, Bobby had bristled as the too-loud whispers reached him across the room, anger shooting through him in a rush of adrenaline. To Bobby's drunken mind, it had been the last straw — for everyone in the room to look at him like a fool, chasing after John like a lost puppy. It had been a whirlwind from there, the remembered sensation of being restrained by his friends, his arms bearing the purple marks of their grip, just barely visible. He remembered John's teary face, looking up to him as he begged him to leave, to just give in and come home with him. It had been enough to snap Bobby back to reality — the sight of John in front of him, allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of a room of strangers like that. 

It made Bobby wonder why exactly he couldn't then be vulnerable in turn, willing to reveal to John what he had been keeping from him, what he had left buried since the night he had spent comforting him in the back seat of Bobby's car. Holding John as he had explained to him about his parents, about his life before, he had felt it, the firework flare in the center of him, the shrill hum in his ears.

Bobby had fallen in love with John, as he had expected to, as he had been warned against, as each of them had tried so keenly to avoid.

He sat on the floor of the bathroom, cold shooting through him as his bare skin met the tile, and began to cry. He brought his knees to his chest, tensing every muscle in his body in an attempt to stifle the sounds of his heaving sobs, scrunching his eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. He held himself like that until he could breathe again, until he could come down, until the vice grip around his heart loosened enough for him to stand. He braced himself against the sink, sucking in breaths, holding them in his lungs for five beats of his heart, before releasing. It had been something John had explained to him, strangely enough — something he used himself whenever he felt himself slipping into a dark place.

"Doesn't happen as often anymore," he had said one night, laughing, trailing his fingers through Bobby's hair, "Not since I got you around to cuddle."

Bobby took in his reflection once again, groaning quietly at his red eyes, the downward cast of his face. He stood straight, crushing the heels of his palms into his forehead, pressing hard to relieve the tension, sighing as he returned to John's room. He was sitting up in his bed, the covers just barely obscuring his middle, his legs splayed wide, his phone in his hand. 

"Simon went home with Isaac last night," he said, not looking at Bobby as he made his way over, "Did I tell you about him? Football guy, closet case? Bobby? You listenin-"

He looked up as Bobby stood beside him, his face creasing at the sight of his expression. 

"I uhh… it wasn't happening, in there. Maybe we should leave it for today."

"Bobby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing! I just…" 

He sat heavily at the edge of the bed, John curling around him, a hand rubbing at his neck, which Bobby melted into, sighing.

"Talk to me."

"I'm just hung up on the stuff from last night," he lied, grasping for a plausible excuse for his distress, "I ruined that whole party, everyone is probably pissed as hell at me."

"Bobby, you know that's not true — I saw everyone's faces as that fucker said that shit to you. They didn't look happy, but it wasn't aimed at you."

"It just hurt, to have heard that. It's been a long time. I thought I was past all that sort of stuff, that I had finally put it behind me."

"Listen to me, baby, come lie down with me."

John shuffled back, urging Bobby to lay flat, to let himself be held. 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, don't be. Just be here, alright? Just be here with me. Let me hold you, I'll make it all better, I promise."

It was enough to bring Bobby back to tears, sobbing into him, reaching for him with his whole body, anything to bring them together.

"Don't let me go, Johnny, please."

"I won't, I won't. I promise, I'm here."

He almost said it, could feel the words crawling their way up his throat, maneuvering themselves around his sobs. He swallowed them, unwilling to destroy the moment.

John held him — one hand rubbing circles into his back as the other pressed his head into his chest — until he exhausted himself, falling half-asleep in John's arms, the two of them lost once more to their separate dreams.

* * *

Bobby jerked awake, his mouth sticky with drool where it had rested against John's chest, swallowing thickly as he stirred. John looked down at him, his attention drawn away from his phone, somewhere behind Bobby's head, his face soft, his smile warm.

"Hey, how are you doing?"

Bobby took stock of himself before he answered, a deep breath as he paused, waiting for the red-hot stab of guilty longing to flash through him once again, for his eyes to well up, for his mind to grow thick with the fog of his anxious fantasy. He remained placid, something in the warmth of John's embrace, of his careful tone, leaving Bobby at ease. He worked his features into a smile, leaning in to kiss John, the two of them meeting with a gentle sound. Behind him, he heard John grope for the bedside table to put his phone down, missing it entirely, letting it drop to the floor. He froze, Bobby laughing softly against his mouth as he pulled away. Leaning down behind himself, he drew it up into his palm, placing it next to his and John's disappointingly empty water bottles. Settling once more, he raked his fingers through John's hair, smiling down at him.

"I'm good, now. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" he replied, his palm cupping Bobby's flushed cheek, "You don't have to pretend in front of me."

"I know, I know — I'm okay, I promise."

"Alright."

"So, what's the news with everyone else? You said Simon went home with some other DL baby gay?"

John nodded, the two of them shifting to sit upright against the headboard, Bobby's arm around his shoulders.

"Yeah — Isaac is his name. He was the guy I did stuff with before, last year, before Simon. Same story, different name."

"Do you think they fooled around?"

"I would be very surprised if they didn't do _something_ within the next twenty-four hours — Isaac has been completely head over heels for Simon for years. He just never brought it up to him, because, well… he didn't know he was gay."

Bobby hummed along, silently screaming in the center of his mind as he pretended not to be in an unsettlingly close situation to Isaac. 

"Guess that's you kicked to the curb, huh?"

John chuckled.

"Guess so — at least I have you still, unless you plan on running off on me."

"Did you miss the part earlier where I was crying and begging you never to leave me?"

"I dunno man, I was half asleep, you could have said anything to me."

They laughed together, John resting his head on Bobby's shoulder, reaching for his other hand, pressing their palms tightly together.

"You're _sure_ you're okay?"

"Look, I'm not exactly walking on sunshine, but I'm fine. I'm glad it was you who took me home, that's all."

"Why's that?"

"Because you know what you're doing, with all this crying bullshit. You know how to make me feel better! No one does it like you."

John, unaccustomed to receiving such praise, ducked his head, blushing into Bobby's armpit.

"I'm always here for you."

"I know."

Again, he felt the urge to let the words slip from his throat, to let them spill forth into the air between the two of them, to have them poison the conversation with the too-real threat of genuine intimacy. Silencing them, he reached for John, crushing their faces together, John meeting him with enthusiasm, their tongues quickly entering the fray. John splayed his hand wide, tracing a broad path across Bobby's front, across his chest and down his stomach, reaching for him between his legs. Pressing his fingers in the space below Bobby's balls, he drew out a long moan from him, pulling down to kiss at his neck. Bobby spoke to him, nails clawed in his shoulder, his earlier hesitation fleeing at the sensation of the warmth of John's tongue as it dragged itself around his Adam's apple.

"Johnny, let me go get ready."

"Are you sure? Weren't you having… uhh, _trouble_ back there earlier?"

"I'll be fine."

John pulled away from him, gesturing for him to stand, the two of them unable to keep from grinning, still giddy at the idea of sex, not yet disenchanted from it. Bobby left him, returning to the bathroom, glancing briefly at his reflection. He looked better — not yet fully back to himself, but no longer at risk of collapsing into himself at the barest touch. He ran water over himself again — just to feel the cool of it against his skin, to wake himself up a little further — speaking to himself.

"Don't fuck this up, dumbass. Don't you dare."

He returned to John shortly after, throwing him two thumbs up, met by his grin.

"Your phone was buzzing, I think it was your mom."

Bobby sighed, reaching into his pants, fishing it out, glancing briefly at the screen.

"Why the fuck is she asking me if I'm home when she knows I'm not? I told her I was going to the gym and then the pool today."

He jabbed a reply to her into the screen, his face knit in consternation, John watching him amusedly. As he awaited her reply, Bobby looked up to him, giving him the finger as John broke into laughter.

"At least Frances understands, you're lucky," he said, tipping himself onto the mattress once again, his upper body laid atop John's, who ran his fingers along Bobby's shoulder — short, meandering lines, just to touch him.

"She knows we're having sex, by the way."

"Oh really?" he replied, surprised at his lack of embarrassment.

"Yeah, she's not dumb. I told her we don't ever do stuff while she's in the house, though."

Bobby nodded, flipping himself over to face John.

"I want you to kiss me again."

John shuffled towards him, their bodies in contact at their stomachs, their knees, their chests. He brought their faces together, Bobby halting just before their lips met.

"Softly, please," he breathed, enough to widen John's eyes, to steal his words from him. He nodded, closing the gap, his lips feather-light and warm, quiet sounds spilling forth around Bobby's tongue. Bobby's hands found their way around his waist, pressing him close, holding him there, John matching him with an arm around his neck and a hand on his bicep, squeezing the muscle hard, just how he knew Bobby liked it. John knew he enjoyed having his muscles felt up — he had told him as much, red-faced and squirming in his arms as John had forced it out of him. It made him feel strong, made him feel like all of his work had paid off, that it was all _for_ something, and not just an aimless exercise in narcissism. 

"Tell me what you want me to do," he said, kissing a line from John's lips to his throat, pressing hard with his tongue along the way.

"Could you… would you mind if I… uhh- Bobby, I hate saying it, please."

"What, what?"

"Just lie flat on your stomach."

Bobby did as he was told, letting his body loosen and fall slack as John worked his hands over his back, bringing himself between Bobby's legs.

"Oh, I see," he said, laughing softly, John batting at him to keep quiet.

"Shut up," he replied, already breathing heavily, "You know I can't say that shit with a straight face."

"Just don't stop, Johnny."

He didn't, Bobby's mind filling with the pleasant hum of white noise as he found focus in the simple, full-body warmth of John's tongue and hands. He reached behind him, his fingers in John's hair, thumb stroking along his temple. John hummed to him, working a hand beneath Bobby's stomach, urging him to flip over once again. He took Bobby in his hand, looking up to him with a grin before swallowing him down, his finger working inside of him where he was slick with saliva. Bobby groaned, an arm thrust over his eyes, his voice already on a short tether.

"Baby, you don't gotta-"

"Shh," John replied, pulling off briefly, rubbing his thumb in short circles around the head, "Let me take care of you."

Bobby laid back, two arms thrust under the pillow and behind his head, his hips rising and falling to match the rhythm of John's mouth. John knew exactly how to get him worked up, taking him down deep until he was moaning and thrusting without thought, only to pull off, running his lips down the side of him, his finger inside joined by another, Bobby reduced solely to sounds, inarticulate. 

"You finally stopped talking so I guess that means you're about ready to go, huh baby?"

Bobby laughed, an almost involuntary sound, nodding. John moved up his body, reaching over him towards the bottom drawer, Bobby's hand reaching out to stop him, lacing their fingers together. John met his eyes, head tilted.

"Maybe we could do it without, for today? I-if you want! I just… I dunno, I just think it'd be nice."

"You sure?"

He shrugged.

"I dunno, Johnny, you know yourself better than I do."

"I doubt that, somehow."

They laughed together, John running a hand through his hair to settle it where it had fallen in front of his eyes, lining himself up with Bobby.

"Probably could do with the other stuff, though," Bobby said, rooting beneath the pillow for the blue-capped bottle, passing it to him. Satisfied, John returned to his position, hitching Bobby's legs up around his hips, pressing into him gently, watching the flutter of his eyes and listening out for the minute sounds of his breaths. It didn't take long for him to get all the way in, Bobby well used to him, the two of them pausing together to bask in the unfamiliar sensations. Bobby brought his arms around his neck, pulling him down, his mouth at his ear.

"I love it like this, Johnny. It never feels like this with anyone but you."

He felt John go red against him, felt him kiss at Bobby's skin.

"Why do you think I keep coming back to you, Bobby?"

Privately, he hoped that there were other reasons John had continued their arrangement — namely, that he was also in love with Bobby but was merely too afraid to say it. That would certainly make things easier. 

They began to move together, Bobby's frazzled, already nervous mind sent into overdrive by the feeling of John filling him, warmth spreading like water through his entire body. He felt it build in him — the urge to cry, to let surge from him his truth, to whisper it in John's ear. It caught in his throat, shuddering around a sob half-formed, tears forming again in Bobby's eyes, his mind completely frayed. John slowed, before stopping entirely, pulling away to look at Bobby, a hand to his forehead forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Bobby, please, you gotta stop crying man. Tell me what's up, let me help."

"It's fine! I'm fine! Just keep going. I'm just fucked up this morning, alright? Just hold on to me and tell me it's gonna be okay."

John groaned, clutching Bobby to him, murmuring to him as they began to move again. He held tightly to John, fingers clawing into his shoulders, heels of his feet pressed into the backs of his thighs. John spoke to him, just as he had begged, telling him he was here, that he would always be here, that there was nothing he would allow to hurt Bobby. It fought back the sobs, the tears, forcing them to recede, filling Bobby with the serene calm he had so sorely lacked. He warned John before he finished, their foreheads together, sweat mingling, Bobby unleashing over himself and between them with a sound somewhere between a roar and a whimper.

"Where?" John asked, almost frantic, his eyes out of focus.

"Inside, please, please."

"Bobby, are you-"

"Yes."

His voice was deep and firm with conviction, John nodding, allowing himself to give in, burying his face in Bobby's neck, stifling his moans — accompanied by a full body shudder — as he finished. He pulled out, the two of them shifting in the sheets, Bobby laid on his side, John facing him, Bobby unable to keep the smile off of his features. They kissed, drifting into the gentle, half-sleeping delirium of their post-sex haze, hands warm in their wanderings, Bobby humming, contented, all the while.

"Sorry for crying on you, again," he said, as the two of them rose, hobbling to the shower on unsteady legs. 

"It's fine — it's nice to reverse the roles on occasion! Just," he added, pausing as he checked the heat of the water, his free hand trailing across Bobby's stomach, "You're alright, right? Because it feels a little like there's something you're not telling me."

Bobby balked, fighting his features to stay neutral, shaking his head.

"No, no, I think I'm just kinda shaken, from what happened last night."

"Alright. I just… I thought, with the thing with Simon…"

They stepped under the water, Bobby letting it run through his hair and down his eyes, catching it in his mouth, letting it fall as it washed out the sour taste in the back of his mouth.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about all of that. I was just being a drunk asshole. I don't have any claim over you — no more than him, anyway — it wasn't my place to get shitty with the two of you over that."

"I wouldn't say you have _less_ claim than him, necessarily," John chuckled, stepping closer to Bobby, the water flowing down and between them.

"Yeah, well, still. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you."

John kissed him — one solid press of the lips, Bobby's arms loose around his waist — and he felt his heart shoot out of his body and into the stratosphere. 

He was hopelessly, completely, in love.

Oblivious to Bobby's internal struggle, John resumed his shower, reaching for the soap, speaking as he lathered the two of them, his hands lingering on Bobby.

"In any case, I dunno how much of Simon I'll be seeing from now on. I don't think Isaac is gonna let him go anytime soon — and if the picture I got this morning was any indication, I think Simon might feel similarly."

"What picture?"

John laughed, scratching soapy lines of shampoo through Bobby's hair, his eyes falling shut, letting the soft sensation of it fill him.

"Two of them in bed — Simon was awake, obviously, Isaac fast asleep on top of him. You shoulda seen the smile on his face, Bobby."

Bobby could easily imagine, being as a similar smile tended to appear on his own features whenever John was nearby.

"I'm happy for them."

"You're just happy you have me all to yourself again."

Bobby shook his head, sending droplets flying.

"Not true," he said, reaching for a towel as the water thunked itself off, "You see other guys, right?"

John shrugged.

"I deleted the apps weeks ago. Between you and Simon, I was getting enough, I figured. In any case, they weren't really doing wonders for my self-image, but we've been over that."

"So it's just been the two of us — the three of us, even?"

"Pretty much. There's guys here and there who sometimes text me — and there _was_ Warren, before he got himself a man — but now it's just you, if things with Simon and Isaac go as they seem likely to."

Bobby paused, stepping out of the shower, eyeing John uneasily.

"Doesn't that just make us… boyfriends?"

John halted suddenly, Bobby's heart missing a beat.

"I mean, technically, I guess. I dunno. I don't wanna think about it — 's too complicated."

"Right," Bobby nodded, letting the matter drop.

They dressed, Bobby checking the time on his phone, weighing up what time he had left before he was expected home.

"You wanna grab breakfast somewhere?"

John turned to him, face thoughtful, shrugging.

"We can. Is your mom gonna yell at you?"

"She's gonna yell regardless, I'm sure — it's always something with her. C'mon, I'll pay."

"Well, when you put it like that…"

They left, Bobby glad to be able to soak in whatever time he had left with John, the proverbial sword left swinging over both of their heads.


	10. White Mercedes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac and Simon spend some time together.  
> The gang have movie night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of publishing this, I've got one chapter left to write, and then we're all done!  
> As such, I'm probably gonna post pretty regularly to get the rest of it updated, so look forward to that.

February, Senior Year

Up. Exhale. Down. 

Up. Exhale. Down.

A bead of sweat traced a line down the edges of Isaac's face, pooling somewhere beneath his shirt where his chest dipped in on itself with every movement. His whole body was soaked, the surface beneath him marked by a liquid silhouette of his form. His chest heaved, muscles in his arms strained to their fullest, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might crack, his mind focused on his breathing, holding on until his body gave out on him.

He pushed up with one final exhalation — rough, the air forced through his tensed muscles — and let himself relax, his arms laying limp at his sides, gulping down breaths. His eyes fell out of focus, the ceiling lights almost blinding, his heartbeat thrumming in the veins in his thighs, in his arms, in his throat. 

He felt a tapping at his knee, blinking out of his haze, swinging under the bar and up into a seated position, eyes coming back into focus on Simon's face, several inches above him. He pulled an earbud out, the sounds of the gym — metal on metal, breathy grunts and pulsing electronic music — rushing back in around him. Simon wasn't nearly as sweaty as him, barely a couple of darker patches under his arms. He stood over Isaac, hands on his hips, his own headphones around his neck. Isaac kept his hands at rest, loosely caged around one another, fighting off the urge to raise them, to run his palms under the hem of Simon's shirt, to graze his fingernails against the hair that brambled tightly across his stomach and up his chest.

"How much you got left?" he asked, nodding at the bar behind him.

Isaac scratched at his temple, counting back in his head through his sets. 

"Couple more."

Simon nodded, shuffling closer, Isaac's ear caught between two of his fingers, grinding it lightly between the pad of his thumb. Isaac laughed quietly, knocking the side of his head against Simon's arm. He pulled away, swaying back on his feet as he righted himself.

"Alright. I'm all done. I was gonna go wait for you in the car, okay?"

"You not gonna shower?" he replied, sniffing the air warily.

"Well," he went on, a grin splitting his face, "I thought maybe since you were coming over, we could wait and shower at my place maybe? Unless you're…" he trailed off, nodding at the slowly evaporating outline of Isaac's body on the leather of the bench. His face grew hot, thumping Simon in the leg.

"You're really gonna make fun of me and then ask me to give it up to you in the same breath?"

"It's up to you," he said finally, shrugging, "I'll be in the car either way."

He left him with a grin thrown over his shoulder, Isaac left to shake his head, willing the swelling pressure in his shorts to dissipate before he laid back down to finish his sets. He cleared up quickly, pushing through the fatigue in his muscles, his mind laser-focused on the thought of Simon standing above him, of the gentle kneading of his ear between his fingers — the tiny gestures of contact that sent pulses through his entire body whenever they were close. 

It had been a couple of months — he and Simon going official in early December, only a few weeks of breathing room between David's party and their first time rolling up to school in Simon's car, a needlessly ostentatious display. That first day, Simon hadn't let go of his hand, fingers locked together as they walked down the halls, his body pressed close to Isaac's as he fumbled his books out of his locker. There had been stares — that had clearly been Simon's intention — prying eyes darting right to the floor as they caught Simon's smug, self-assured face. No one would touch them, that was for sure. Simon was a threat enough on his own, to say nothing of Isaac's own body, nor the looming shadow of the rest of the team — at least, that majority which hadn't taken Eric's side — hanging over their heads. Isaac gave in to him, eventually, his anxiety slipping away, letting himself lean into his waiting arms. Time had passed around them — lunch hours spent with Simon's long legs bracketing Isaac's hips at a table, laughing along with their friends as if nothing had changed; lingering in the showers after football practice to make out, only dragging themselves out as the rattle of the janitor's keys grew louder. 

It wasn't anything Isaac had ever dreamed about — his dreams of his future mostly centred previously on ideas of football stardom and closeted anxiety — but it was a welcome occupation of his time. 

Simon had made things easier for him, opened up parts of himself to Isaac that he would have never guessed lay beneath his skin — his quiet tenderness whenever they laid together, so far away from his boisterous carry-on with their friends; his desire to be held, to be cradled close; his startlingly serious-sounding commitment to Isaac and their future — and he was glad for it.

A part of him, a tiny bleating voice in the centre of his head, wept for the time lost between them — the year and a half, maybe more, that they could have had, had they simply been in an environment where they could have been themselves.

He sniffed, and collected his clothes, his phone, texting Simon to let him know he was done.

He emerged into the parking lot, rolling his shoulder as he glanced around to find their parking spot. He spotted the car, Simon in the driver's seat, head turned to converse with someone leaning into the window. Isaac silenced the match-head flame of jealousy that sparked inside of him, heading over, Simon's head turning to him, hand raised. The figure leaned out of the window and faced him in turn, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, dipping low in the sky despite the early hour. 

It was Bobby.

"Hey, man," he said, reaching for Isaac's hand, pulling him in. They embraced briefly, Isaac moving to the trunk to deposit his bag, swinging himself in next to Simon — a hand on his thigh, a subconscious, if petty addition from his brain. Bobby leaned back into the car, speaking to Isaac.

"So, I was saying to Simon, John was gonna ask you two if you wanted to do movie night with us this weekend? He was gonna text but then I saw Simon here so I figured I'd just say it to you now."

Simon looked to him, the pair of them sharing a brief look — the silent acknowledgement that the option to say no and just stay home would always remain — before Isaac nodded.

"Sure, sounds good to me. What're we watchin'?"

Bobby shrugged.

"Probably something scary. That's all we ever watch unless it's my turn to pick, and I did last month."

"What'd you pick?" Simon asked, one eyebrow quirked.

Bobby went quiet, his cheeks red.

"It was uhh… I made us watch The Notebook."

Simon and Isaac groaned in unison, faces crinkled in disgust.

"Jesus man, how gay are you?"

"I thought it was a different movie…," he replied, trailing off sheepishly, "I was mostly just watching for Ryan Gosling."

"He is pretty hot, to be fair," Isaac said, batting at Simon's incredulous face.

"Baby, him? Really?"

"Shut the fuck up, we can't all have a thing for Tyler Perry like you."

Simon threw his hands to the ceiling, sighing exasperatedly.

"I said he looked good in that one photo! One!"

Bobby pulled away, shaking his head at their display, patting the doorframe.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it, I gotta head inside. I'll let John know you're coming, alright?"

They watched him go, Simon starting up the car, one arm behind Isaac's head as he reversed out of his spot. Isaac watched him as he moved, the muscles in his neck strained taut, the hairs on his forearm, the soft rustle of the material of his gym shirt. He felt the urge to kiss his wrist where it sat right by Isaac's lips — an urge all too familiar to him, reminiscent of dark bus rides home from football games, Simon's head heavy on Isaac's shoulder, taking all of his restraint not to lace their fingers together and kiss his rumpled brow while he slept. He indulged his impulse, now that he could, now that it was reciprocated. His lips met Simon's skin softly, parted slightly as they brushed the ticklish inside of his wrist. He heard Simon laugh — deep in his throat, lips barely twitching into a grin — his hand settling into a gentle grip at the back of Isaac's neck as he drove. 

"You stink," he said, after some time of silence, halfway to Simon's house. 

Simon turned to him, face incredulous.

"Are you for real?"

"I didn't say it was bad," he went on, shifting in his seat, hand discreetly adjusting himself in his shorts, "I just said you stink. I like it, kinda."

"Oh," he replied, thumb stroking at a vein in Isaac's neck, a thoughtful hum rippling through him as they sat at a red light. "Do you maybe wanna… shower a little later then? We could go to my room first, and…"

Isaac shrugged.

"I dunno. It sounds nice, but I still gotta, you know, get ready or whatever. I kinda like to shower after all of that."

"I mean, you don't have to, I'm sure-"

Isaac cut him off with a look, face deadpan.

"I'm not taking bottoming advice from someone who almost kicked me in the face when I tried to put a finger in his ass, Simon."

"Point taken."

"I thought so."

Simon felt his face grow hot, chewing on his lip, voice quiet, some quiet tenderness slipping into the air between them.

"We can… you can try that again some time. I'd still like to do it, if it's you."

Isaac reached for him, scratching at his stomach, resting his hand on his upper thigh.

"Yeah. We can. You'll get there."

Simon quirked a smile at him, pulling up the hand in his lap to press a kiss to his knuckles.

* * *

For the second time that day, Isaac found himself lying in a puddle of his own sweat, breathing heavily out of his nose as he struggled to regain composure. Simon sat at the edge of the bed, stretching one of his legs where a muscle had been on the verge of a cramp, gazing down at Isaac amusedly.

"You good?"

Isaac didn't look at him, but nodded.

"Could you maybe open a window?"

Simon laughed, heaving himself off the bed and over to his desk, leaning behind it to throw open the catch, evening air rushing in to replace the stifling heat from their bodies. He heard Isaac sigh as the breeze hit him, cooling his flushed skin, returning to the side of the bed, looming naked over him. Isaac turned to meet his gaze, eyes rolling up from their starting position between Simon's legs.

"What's up?"

"I was gonna shower. Are you coming with?"

Isaac sighed, disappointed that he had to get himself off the bed so soon. He swung himself around, Simon stifling a laugh at the impression of his body on the covers, marked in sweat. 

"I never noticed how sweaty you got," he said, the two of them meandering on tired legs into the bathroom, Isaac leaning on the counter as Simon fumbled with the controls. Soon the bathroom was full of steam, the regular sound of the water almost drowning them out. Simon moved to him, fingertips grazing his sides, their bodies just barely in contact. Isaac watched him, still not speaking, Simon leaning in to press their cheeks together.

"Why're you so quiet?" he mumbled, scratching his beard against Isaac's face, "You mad at me?"

Isaac leaned into him, a kiss pressed to his throat, hands working their way around his waist, the two of them swaying together. 

"Dude, I'm so fuckin' tired, you have no idea. We should have had sex before the gym."

"Okay well, we can sleep after this, come on."

He dragged Isaac, the two of them walking as one, over to the shower, holding him steady as he swung his leg over the side of the tub. Simon stood him under the water, holding him still as he reached for the soap.

"I got you, you just stand there, alright?"

Isaac rolled his eyes, but allowed Simon to work his hands over him, their grins breaking out into full smiles, Isaac pressing an open mouthed kiss to the plane of Simon's chest, listening for the hiss as he bit down. Simon pushed him off, deep laughter echoing in the small space.

"Hey, watch it, you already got it today."

Isaac flipped them around, water cascading down Simon's body in rivulets dictated by the ridges of his muscles, one hand low on his stomach, sliding inexorably down. He brought their faces close again, lips moving against Simon's as he spoke.

"I want more."

Almost as punctuation, he closed his grip around Simon, feeling his breath hot against his face as he sighed, Simon moaning out his response.

"I love you."

Isaac chuckled as he drew his face down Simon's body, coming to his knees in between his legs. Simon tapped the side of his head, swinging his hips back as Isaac tried to take him inside. He turned his face up to Simon's, expression quizzical.

"Say it back," he whined, Isaac rolling his eyes.

"I love you too, Si."

He nodded, a satisfied smile plastered to his face, and brought his arms behind his head, his bravado returning to him. Internally, Isaac cursed himself for falling so hard for him, but set to work anyway, swallowing him down — it having been hard from the moment Simon had put his hands on him at the sink. They had joked about it before, Simon's propensity towards readiness at the drop of a hat. At least, Isaac had been joking. Simon had gone slightly quiet as he had asked him, voice serious.

"Izzy, I get hard when you text me. I get hard when I know you're coming over later. I get hard when I think about you, man." 

Isaac had stared at him, waiting for him to crack up into laughter which never came. 

"You got it bad, huh?"

Simon had only nodded, reaching for him.

He didn't take long to finish the second time, Isaac working him with his hand, watching him spill over onto Isaac's chest. He kissed down the side of it, pushing up off of his tired knees and back into Simon's arms, the two of them sharing another slow kiss, water from the shower spilling in and around their lips and tongue. They pulled away, Isaac resting their foreheads together.

"Come on, your parents are gonna freak about the water bill."

Simon nodded, the shower coming to a stop with a thunk, the two of them left cold once again. Isaac stepped out, passing Simon a towel, the two of them working themselves quickly dry and back into their clothes.

"I gotta shave," Simon said, observing his face in the mirror, the steam having been hastily wiped away with their towels. Isaac shrugged, leaning over his shoulders, arms folded across his stomach.

"I dunno," he replied, rubbing his own hairless cheek against Simon's, "I like it."

Simon shook his head, shuffling free of Isaac's embrace as he darted into his room and back again, his shaving kit in hand. Isaac frowned, but relented, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet as he watched Simon work. He did it every spring, he had explained a few days prior, his shaving ritual. From the start of the school year, he let his beard grow as it would, trimming it and shaping it as needed. As the new year rolled in and winter moved slowly onwards, he would shave it — and keep shaving it — remaining bare-faced for the rest of the year. It was a bizarre set of circumstances, in Isaac's eyes, but it was something Simon seemed to be committed to, and so he didn't question it. Instead — in the three years he had pined silently after Simon — it had been a quiet disappointment for Isaac each February when he would return to class without the darkness on his cheeks that made Isaac's heart thump just that little bit harder in his chest.

Isaac watched him as he shaved, a familiar ritual, a twice-weekly one for Isaac himself, rendered entirely extraordinary by the simple fact that it was Simon's hand — the same hand that linked fingers with Isaac's, that pressed into his throat whenever he asked for it in bed, that sat warm and heavy on his stomach while they slept — moving back and forth over his skin. Simon caught his eye occasionally, but he said nothing. He didn't need to speak. He knew Isaac was in deep, as much as he was. 

As he washed the lather from his face, Simon reached for a towel, Isaac handing it over, standing behind him once more. He inspected Simon's new face, running his fingers over the smoothness of his jaw, scratching his nail upwards through the barely-there stubble on his cheek. They held each other's eyes in the reflection of the mirror, breaking out into grins, Isaac finally kissing the space where his neck became his shoulder.

"See, you don't mind it."

"I prefer you with it, that's all."

Simon chuckled, Isaac returning to kiss at his neck. He ran a hand across his head, eyeing his electric razor, humming thoughtfully to himself.

"What's up?"

"I might shave my head too."

Isaac stood straight, eyeing his hair quizzically.

"Hmmmm, I guess you could. You'd look alright. You've got the face for a bald look."

Simon laughed, brows pulling together.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're pretty, and anything works on you, dummy."

"I see."

"You want me to do it?"

"Would you?" he replied, their eyes meeting, some indescribable floating sensation filling Simon's chest.

Isaac shrugged, gesturing to the tub.

"Go sit, put a towel around your shoulders."

Simon did as he was told, suddenly excited at the prospect, warring with himself to keep the smile off of his face. Isaac sat on the edge of the tub, one leg in, one leg on the floor, Simon's broad shoulders between his legs. He started up the razor — its whirring hum just barely overwhelming the thump of Simon's heart — and paused, right above his hairline.

"You sure?"

"Babe it's a haircut, not dental surgery, it'll grow back eventually."

Isaac rolled his eyes, shaving a single strip down the centre of his scalp. He clicked the razor off, making to stand once more, Simon grabbing at him as they both broke out into laughter.

"Come on, you don't think you could rock this?"

"I hate you so much."

Isaac continued, Simon's eyes falling shut on the pretense of keeping the hairs away. In truth, cutting off his vision heightened his other senses, making more pronounced the soft texture of Isaac's fingers where they rested on the side of his head, holding him still as the razor moved. Briefly, he reached out with one hand, gripping around Isaac's calf, squeezing once before letting it fall back into his lap. Above him, he heard Isaac chuckle, saying nothing.

Soon enough, the razor shut off, Isaac sweeping away stray hairs into the tub behind them, hefting Simon up to stand. He made his way over to the mirror, inspecting the damage, throwing Isaac a thumbs up. He sidled over to Simon, arms around his waist, cheek pressed into his shoulder, watching his eyes through the mirror. 

"I'm gonna finish this off with the other razor, do you maybe wanna go nap while I do? It'll take maybe ten minutes tops."

Isaac shook his head.

"I gotta go soon, I do the groceries today for me and my Mom. It's getting late, and if I don't get there soon all the good shit will be gone."

Simon looked thoughtful for a moment, reaching behind him to squeeze Isaac close to him.

"Alright, I'll finish up, and then I'll take you to the grocery store and then drop you home, huh?"

"You don't gotta-"

"I want to."

Isaac fell quiet, leaving him with a kiss and a pat to his lower back, retreating to Simon's room to call his Mom.

An hour later, they were on the road back to Isaac's house, Simon's trunk filled with their bags, Isaac's hand resting once more on his thigh. They had been quiet the whole ride, exhaustion catching up on them as the early spring night had fallen around them. 

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to stay tonight, but it'll be messy with school tomorrow, huh?"

"Why's that?"

"Well cuz your car will be at mine so we'd have to either take separate cars in the morning or you'd have to take me home as well and I live in the opposite direction to you."

"None of that sounds like an issue to me."

"Do you wanna stay tonight then?"

"I'll text my parents when we get there."

"Alright."

Later that night, Simon returned from the bathroom to find Isaac already curled up on his side, the faint light from his laptop flickering scenes of the movie they had been watching across his serene features. Laughing quietly to himself, he moved around the room, shutting down the computer, settling an alarm on both of their phones — Isaac having added Simon's fingerprint to his phone's memory bank, granting him access — before turning out the light and sliding back in behind him. Isaac stirred as Simon's arm wound around his waist, mumbling sleepily into his pillow.

"We gotta finish the movie."

"It's okay, baby," Simon responded, a smile on his face, "They all die at the end, it's cool."

Isaac nodded, plainly oblivious to anything Simon had just said, hooking their feet together as he settled back into sleep. Simon joined him shortly, lulled to calm by the rise and fall of Isaac's stomach beneath his interwoven fingers.

* * *

The girls were late, a hurried text from Ororo promising they'd be there in fifteen, sent almost a half hour ago.

Simon and Isaac — who John resolutely refused to call, 'the boys', despite Bobby's insistence — were also late, an infuriatingly nonchalant series of texts from Simon their only excuse.

_We're banging_

_Sorry_

_Be there soon_

_Hopefully_

"I can't stand any of them. Why do we even bother?" John said, eyes on the ceiling, face twisted into a frustrated frown. From his stomach, body between his legs, one hand flat on his chest, came Bobby's voice, trailing out of breath through flushed lips.

"I dunno, gives us more time to have fun before the rest of them get here and we have to be boring again," he replied lazily, returning the head of John's cock into his mouth, one finger tracing a line up the side of it, drawing out a full body shiver from John. They were in his room, window open to flush out the miasma of sex still lingering from earlier that afternoon, John's half-hearted attempt at dressing only getting as far as his shirt and underwear before it was thwarted by Bobby's insistent hands and hungry mouth.

Before he could respond to him with something suitably jaded and effortlessly aloof, he was overtaken by a moan, Bobby's nose meeting the skin of his stomach, the warmth of his throat stealing John's words from him. He pulled off, hand working the spit-slick shaft quickly, grinning at John's stunned face.

"Stay quiet, you're hotter when you're not trying to be cool," he said, grin widening somehow, leaning down to kiss John, traces of saliva still barely clinging to his chin. John met him with an incredulous shake of the head, arcing his hips up into the air as Bobby brought him to the end. Their tongues' twistings came to a sudden halt as he finished, butting his head roughly up into Bobby's, who pushed back with the same force, letting him grind his forehead up against something solid as his body released. 

John's arm remained where it was, draped loosely across the back of Bobby's shoulders, his other hand fisted in the front of his shirt, holding his body close as he came down, trailing wet-lipped kisses down his neck. Bobby shuddered against him, his own erection insistent against the bare skin of John's stomach where his t-shirt had pulled up. Bobby spoke to his ear, breath hot, both arms strained on either side of his head, his cheek scrubbing the side of John's head.

"Me next?" he asked, biting at John's ear, smiling at the shaky laugh that stuttered through the air up to him.

"Bobby, the guys are gonna be here any minute, we gotta get dressed man, come on!" his voice was exasperated, but full of humour, reaching up to kiss Bobby again and again, even as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he sat, reaching for the towel on the floor, Bobby rose behind him, arms loose around his neck, body weighing heavy on his back, lust-thick voice soft beside him.

"Come on, you know it doesn't take long."

"Bobby," John replied with a snort, "I don't think you having a short fuse in the bedroom is something to advertise."

He shrugged, swirling a finger around a lock of John's hair.

"Doesn't seem to stop you, all the same."

John sighed, leaning back into him, kissing his cheek as firmly as the angle allowed.

"I'll get you back later, yeah?"

"I can't stay tonight, remember? I got practice tomorrow morning before class."

"Okay, well, next time."

Before Bobby could protest further — and inevitably win John over — John's phone buzzed, his hand darting out for it, Ororo's contact lighting up his screen.

"They're five minutes away, come on, up."

Bobby relented finally, rolling over himself and onto his feet, searching the floor for his clothes. John watched him amusedly, the hem of his t-shirt just barely long enough to cover what was necessary, at least until he bent over on himself, hooking his underwear out from under John's bed.

"How did they even get under there?" he asked, turning them the right way in before slipping them over his legs. John shrugged, buttoning his jeans as he made his way into the bathroom. Inspecting his neck — where Bobby's mouth had sat, applying pressure, for a suspiciously long time — eyes widening at the sight of a bruise, purple and angry against his pale flesh.

"I knew you were giving me a hickey, dumbass!" he exclaimed, barging back into the room, where Bobby was sat on the edge of John's bed, his jeans still not on, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as John entered, shrugging.

"Who cares? Everyone knows we're fuckin', not like you have to hide it."

John's brow furrowed, consternation still creasing his features, Bobby looking up once again, quirking an eyebrow.

"Are you actually mad?"

John faltered, sighing, shoulders dropping.

"No. I just don't like them, I told you. Makes me feel like people are looking at me."

Bobby made his way over to him, almost slipping on his jeans where they remained lifeless on the floor, working his arms around his waist, eyes sparkling.

"Maybe they should be lookin' at you, pretty face like yours going to waste like that — it's a terrible thing."

He punctuated his words with a hand on John's chin, tilting his mouth up to meet Bobby's, the two of them sighing lightly, breath mingling warm over their parted lips. 

Months out from David's party and Bobby's half-baked confession to John's sleeping form, their relationship — or lack thereof — had maintained itself, Bobby still caught in John's orbit, still smoothing over the bristling hurt in his heart whenever he saw him online on the apps. He wasn't aware if John still saw other guys — Bobby hadn't for a long time — and it had seemed rude, too personal, too prying, to ask. And so, quietly Bobby had simmered, always reaching for John, waiting for their hands to meet. It had gotten to the point that Simon had picked up on it, pulling Bobby aside one night at another party — another birthday for a nameless classmate — asking him what the story was. He had explained himself — his earlier aversion to Simon dissipated as easily as it had amassed itself within him — Simon listening intently.

"Man," he had said with a sigh, "You gotta do something. Don't keep that shit to yourself forever, it's gonna get messy."

"I know, I know. But you know what he's like — he'll run if things get too official. I just gotta wait it out and hope he gets there on his own."

Simon had pulled him in for a sidelong hug, Bobby's face creased in surprise, settling into it with a warm pat at the small of his back. They parted, Bobby fighting a smile onto his face, swallowing his dejection.

"Hey, I never said, congrats on everything with Isaac. I'm happy for you, dude, you look good together."

Simon had ducked his head, by that point still giddy in the midst of his and Isaac's newfound romance.

"Yeah," he said, stuttering around his elation, "He's great. I, uhh… I think I'm in love with him. Is it too soon? Am I crazy?"

Bobby shrugged. 

"I fell hard for Johnny pretty quick, maybe if you know, you know."

That had been it, Simon leaving him alone as he staggered off to find his boyfriend, the two of them winding up outside, pressed up against a side wall of the house in the dark, far from propriety.

Back in his own mind, Bobby watched John's back as he made his way downstairs, fumbling finally into his jeans and into the bathroom, running cold water over his face. Distantly, he heard the doorbell, the sound of John letting the girls in, their half-hearted apologies. He breathed quietly to himself, preparing his body for another evening of pretending he wasn't in love with his best friend, and left, footsteps heavy on the stairs.

Jean and Ororo were already sitting as he made his way into the living room, two smirking glances thrown his way as they took in his rumpled clothing and still-flushed skin.

"I see someone still has priority boarding," Jean said, half calling to John in the kitchen where he was retrieving glasses for the four of them, half watching Bobby as he rolled his eyes.

"I'm a valued customer," he replied, coming down heavily on one side of the couch, across from his and John's usual spot. It was an experiment — or something approaching one. He would sit apart, not touching, not wrapped up in him, in the hopes that it might clear some of the fog from his head. John took him in where he sat, one eyebrow raised, Bobby only shrugging in response. He made to sit, barely an inch away from the cushion, when the doorbell rang. He froze, mid-movement, and sighed pushing up once more in resignation. Bobby was quicker, rising and moving around the couch, one hand pressing down on John's shoulder as he passed him.

"I'll get it."

John nodded in brief thanks, watching over his shoulder as Bobby opened the door, Simon and Isaac piling in — Simon walking as though it were his own house, Isaac more furtive, eyes darting around. 

"Sorry we're late, practice went longer than usual."

Simon rolled his eyes behind him, shaking his head. His hand found Isaac's shoulder, whispering into his ear, Isaac's head snapping up to stare at him incredulously. He thumped his chest, the sound echoing more loudly than expected, Simon doubling over slightly, a pained expression on his face.

"I don't need everyone knowing our business, asshole!"

Simon raised his hands in apology, still wincing slightly as they moved to sit, Isaac pointedly sitting away from him, batting at Simon's hands as they wrapped around his waist to pull him in.

"Nope," he said, shaking his head, attempting to free himself to no avail, "You're in trouble now, I'm pissed."

Simon persisted, Isaac's resolve shattering into laughter as he murmured an apology into his ear. Isaac sighed, relaxing into him, rubbing the back of his knuckles against the spot he had hit.

"Did that hurt for real?"

Simon nodded.

"It did, actually."

"I'm sorry."

Their lips met, Isaac letting Simon's arm come around his waist, his own hand reaching up to scratch the side of his head. All the while, they were watched, Ororo's face crinkling in mock disgust.

"You two make me sick," she said, Simon's head turning to meet her face, middle finger raised in her direction.

"Listen, if you had just said yes to dating me last year, this all could have been different!"

"I thought you were just another football goon, how was I supposed to know you're all soft and sensitive?"

Isaac snorted in laughter.

"Wow, call him a f— why don't you, geez."

Simon knocked on his head in almost-outrage at his casual use of that word, Bobby and John laughing hard from across the room.

"What? We can use that word!"

"Still," Simon replied, "Doesn't mean I like it. I don't even say our other word."

"That's because your parents are basically white," Isaac said, Ororo meeting his gaze knowingly, "See? Ororo gets it!"

"Mine are too, more or less," she explained, "I only ever hear that word when my uncles come over. I think my mom would rip my tongue out if she heard me say that."

"Speaking of ripping out tongues, let's get this movie started already, oh my god!" Jean exclaimed, snapping impatiently in John's direction.

"Relax, relax," he replied, jabbing the remote at the screen, scrolling through his Netflix for the movie he had lined up.

"So, what are we watching?" Isaac asked, neatly nestled with his back to Simon's chest, their legs splayed out over the couch as if they lived there.

"Probably fuckin' Sexy Teen Slaughter Party Nine, or something," Bobby huffed, John throwing him a grin from across the couch.

"Not far off," he said, hitting play, the usual high-strung score filling the room, the scantily-clad teens in question running barefoot across wet grass at night time as they were chased by a masked killer. Bobby groaned as the first girl met her end at the bottom of a reddening pool, Simon joining him, his face almost entirely obscured by Isaac's head. Isaac didn't seem much bothered by the movie at all, even bored by it. John observed the three of them quietly, paying little attention to the movie — now on his third viewing of it. As Bobby clutched a couch cushion to his chest, John was struck once again by their conspicuous separation by Bobby's design. Had he really been that sore about John's refusal to get him off the second time? Unlikely. 

He rose, grabbing Bobby's empty glass and his own, filling them both in the sink, returning as the group on screen attempted to deduce the identity of the killer from their meagre information. Approaching the couch, he chose Bobby's side, sitting heavily in his lap, Bobby's back to the arm of the seat, John's legs stretching out towards the coffee table. Monetarily, he felt Bobby flinch — an entirely alien response that sent an anxious chill down John's spine — replaced quickly by his arms shuffling around him, sitting in their usual configuration. As the movie went on and Bobby's fingers began to rhythmically clench into John's sides as the terror mounted, he felt his unease ebbing away, fingers ruffled in Bobby's hair. At one climactic moment, Bobby's face tucked into John's neck, he spoke to him, voice low, barely a whisper.

"Are you okay? Did I do something?"

Bobby shook his head, looking up briefly to smile at John, warm and reassuring.

"It's nothing. I promise."

John held his gaze, waiting for something to reveal itself in his expression, but nothing came. They settled back, one finger hooked under Bobby's chin, scratching idly.

His phone buzzed — the two long pulses that indicated a phone call — towards the end, his brow furrowed as he fished his phone out. Frances' contact lit up the screen, inspiring yet more confusion in him. He stood, untangling himself from Bobby — who followed him with his eyes, face concerned — moving towards the stairs.

"Sorry, Frances is calling, I'll be right back."

"You're not supposed to say that!" Isaac exclaimed, drawing out laughter from the rest of them, soothing their already building anxiety at John's sudden distraction. It took a moment, but Bobby spoke eventually.

"Did that seem weird to anyone?"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Jean replied, shrugging, "Relax."

There was sympathy in her tone, her smile tight. Even Simon watched him out of the corner of his eye. He felt his skin prickle with embarrassment, everyone in the room aware of the silent tension between he and John. Twenty minutes passed without John's reappearance, and Bobby stood. Ororo met his eye, shaking her head.

"Come on, Bobby."

"I have to pee!" he replied, hands raised, "I'll be right back, I promise!"

She waved him off with a sigh, returning to the screen, where the next movie in the franchise was already in full swing.

Bobby mounted the stairs, as quietly as possible, as if unwelcome. He had no intentions of checking on John, his excuse of needing the bathroom entirely legitimate. He passed by his bedroom, door ajar, looking briefly inside. John stood, still on the phone, his back to Bobby. He moved quickly, not wanting to overhear anything, and darted into the bathroom.

As he emerged, making his way back towards the stairs, he looked in again, John now sitting on the edge of his bed, looking up as Bobby passed. Their eyes met, John inclining his head back to usher him inside. His face was pinched tight, features sagging with some unnamed sadness, reaching for Bobby as he sat beside him.

"Everything okay?" he ventured, voice low, one arm around John's shoulders, pulling him close.

"I uhh… I don't want to talk about it right now."

Bobby nodded, leaning into him, a kiss to the top of his head.

"No worries," he said to his hair, "You don't have to say anything. I'm here."

John's hand rose to grasp at Bobby's shirt, face pressed to his neck.

"Give me five minutes, okay?"

Bobby nodded, making to get up so John could be alone, halted by that same hand pulling him back down.

"Five minutes with you, I meant."

"Oh," he replied, quietly, trying not to smile.

They sat, completely in silence, both of John's arms winding around Bobby's neck. Against the skin of his cheek, Bobby could feel John's lips moving, could just barely hear the slight hum of his words as he talked himself away from whatever dark spiral was attempting to consume his thoughts.

"C'mon," Bobby said, knocking his head lightly into John's, "They're gonna make fun of me for checking on you at this rate."

He felt John smile against him.

"They were always gonna do that."

They separated, John coming downstairs first, laden with excuses of Frances completely forgetting his friends were over and keeping him on the line for far too long. Bobby returned shortly after, not even bothering to excuse himself, shrugging at Ororo's questioning gaze and rolled eyes. The rest of the night went as normal, with Isaac and Simon leaving first, half-hearted intimations of early practice the next morning following them out the door.

"They're going home to have sex again aren't they?"

Ororo nodded, Jean's face deadpan.

"Not even trying to hide it — they're worse than you two."

Ororo and Jean left not long after, Jean's father buzzing in her pocket. She watched the phone for a long time, wondering how long she could leave him ringing before he gave up. For five whole minutes they watched it vibrate in her palm, before she picked up, waving behind her as she and Ororo breezed out.

"Hi Dad, sorry I took so long, I was smoking weed with my biker friends. Be home soon!"

That left John and Bobby alone. 

"Alright, I'm gonna head home," he said, John nodding along, leaning into his open arms.

"Thanks for today, it's nice knowing I can count on you like that."

"It's no big deal. If you wanna talk about it, just call or text, or whatever. And if you don't, you don't, that's okay too."

"I'd like it if you could be a little nosy, man. Come on, Bobby, step over the line for once!"

Bobby laughed loud, tightening their embrace once before letting him go.

"For real though, just call me if you need to talk."

"I will."

They kissed briefly, John pulling him in close, teeth grinding into his lower lip, Bobby huffing laughter as he pulled away.

"Relax. You got enough of me this afternoon."

"I never did get you back for the second time."

"We still on for tomorrow?"

John nodded.

"You can get me then, then."

"Sounds good to me. I'll see you, Bobby."

He left, the door shutting behind him, John left nursing the fizzing heat that spread throughout his body whenever they were close. He made his way back to his room, sitting upright on his bed, awaiting Frances' return. She didn't take long, maybe ten minutes between Bobby's car pulling out of the driveway to be replaced by her own. She came up to him almost immediately, apologetic face peeking around the door.

"Oh good, you're not lying face down into your pillow," she said, taking a seat in his desk chair, "I didn't mean to spring that on you while your friends were around — I forgot tonight was movie night."

"It's okay, I didn't end up spiralling or anything so it's all good."

She nodded, fingers tight where they gripped each other in her lap.

"When does he want to meet?" John asked, breaking the silence before it could grow much more.

"He said whenever you're comfortable with it. It's supposed to be about you, he said."

John swallowed, and nodded.

"We could do it next week, maybe?"

"I'll let him know."

They were each quiet then, Frances rising, her face carrying the expression of a trapped animal.

"He's been working really hard since everything happened. He has a lot of explaining to do, to you, but he's trying. I just think you should know."

"I believe you — I believe him. He can tell me himself."

"I love you. Even if it doesn't work out, you'll still have a home here."

"I know, I love you too," he said, pausing as he felt a sob shudder it's way up his throat, "Stop. You're gonna make me cry, and I was so proud of myself for not."

They each laughed, the tension shattering between them, Frances hovering at the door.

"Did you talk with Bobby at all?"

"What about?"

"Not this, the other thing."

"Oh. No."

"John," she said, her voice a warning, "It has to be some time."

"I'm working on it," he replied, shrugging.

She rolled her eyes, shutting the door as she walked out, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs calling to him. He rolled over onto his side, pulling up Bobby's social media on his phone, scrolling through the usual images again, pausing at the newest ones. Most were of the two of them together in some capacity — arms entwined, bodies turned to each other, faces creased in laughter.

The jokes about them being a couple had stopped, losing their potency as they became closer and closer to reality.

He sighed, arm over his eyes as he laid on his back.

"Shit."


	11. February 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and his father reunite, and there is some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little preface here, just to say that I am — in case it wasn't already obvious — a believer in happy endings and true love and all those lovely things.  
> As such, what happens here might seem a little contrived, and unrealistic, in some ways.   
> That's good! This is fiction after all, and for some, fiction is an escape.  
> I wish everyone who has a difficult family a pleasant and swift recovery from whatever traumas they may have inflicted on you, and I love you all.

February, Senior Year

It was warm in the car, unseasonably so.

John could feel sweat prickling at the small of his back, the material of his shirt sticking to the leather seats, breath oppressively hot in his throat. He supposed it was nerves, rather than any sort of effect of the weather, Frances stock still beside him in the driver's seat, eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel as if for dear life. They hadn't spoken for the majority of the drive, John content to sit in silence as the plain grey-green landscape of the road moved around them. Approaching the exit that would put them on the route to John's hometown, he felt something swell in his chest, a bubble of anxiety that grew until it felt like it was pressing on all of his organs. He felt the bubble burst as they passed the exit, his eyes following it as it passed his window. His face creased in confusion, brow furrowing, head turning as he made to voice his question to Frances, who anticipated him.

"He moved. About a year ago. He didn't want to live in that house anymore — all the memories, you know?"

John nodded.

"I guess. That makes sense, yeah. I'd probably have done the same, too."

Frances shrugged. There was a beat of silence, her slender body — tall like his father, genes he hadn't been afforded — shifting uncomfortably in her seat, a plant outgrowing its pot, bristling in the sunlight.

"He kept your stuff, from when you were a kid. He told me. He didn't think it was right to get rid of it all without asking you."

John's mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came to him. The idea that his father thought of him, in any capacity, was a little disquieting. In his mind, for as long as they had been apart, he had been convinced that the rift which had formed between them had been total, impassable, and entirely his own fault.

"Can I ask you something?"

Frances looked away from the road for a brief moment to watch his face, nodding.

"Of course."

"This might be better to ask him, but…" he paused, taking a deep inhale before continuing, "When I left — when he sent me to you — did he hate me?"

Frances slumped slightly in her seat, a pained sigh leaving her.

"No. He didn't. Not ever."

John nodded, biting at his thumbnail.

"I always thought… I always figured that's what it was."

"I don't think he's capable of that, John."

Something crept up John's throat, spilling out of his mouth before he had the chance to interrogate it.

"So why did he sound like that on the phone?"

"Like what?"

"Like he couldn't even say my name. Like he wanted nothing to do with me, or you, or anything anymore."

Frances shook her head, almost laughing, John's head snapping incredulously to her.

"John, have you ever heard how you talk to people on the phone? Or me? Everyone in our family sounds like that."

"But-"

"Besides," she added, cutting him off, "Of course he didn't want to be calling, about the money, or about how you were. Why would he? He wanted you home with him, John. He wanted to be there for you. He just knew he wasn't able, not how you needed. He was guilty, John."

He sighed, feeling the tears he had kept at bay pricking at his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's not your fault. He could have maybe expressed himself a little better, a little more clearly."

"I guess I could say the same." 

John didn't know what to make of that — the idea that his separation from his father wasn't something either of them had wanted, in the end. Three years John had spent, curled in on himself, withdrawn from the outside world, mind on his studies at school, the only distraction that served to draw him away from the ever-tightening spiral in his chest. The voice in the shadows of his room at night which whispered to him that he had never been loved, that his expulsion from his home had always been the intended outcome. He hadn't ever entertained the notion of friendship, the insurmountable gloom that dragged at his shoulders wherever he went.

His friendship with Jean had been a fluke, one group project in a class — an entirely frivolous assignment intended as an ice-breaker — had brought them together, their shared interests and sense of humour having drawn them close long after their powerpoint had been performed, ardently ignored by the rest of the class. Jean had introduced him to Ororo, an old friend from her childhood, and the three had gone from there. They were, as far as John was concerned, an anomaly. They had stood with him for years, never prying into his past, never questioning why he lived with his aunt. They loved him, they teased him, they pried him kicking and screaming from his room out into the world and into their lives, refusing to let him rot in his misery. He should have been a loner, dissociated from his peers by his grief, dragging his feet through the halls of their high school, inspiring rumours of the mass violence he might enact upon them if treated unfairly. 

Which hadn't stopped them from treating him unfairly.

His sexuality had been their main point of contention. It wasn't that he had walked in on the first day and announced himself in the cafeteria — rather, he simply hadn't bothered to attempt to hide it. It was futile anyway — all their petty bullying couldn't have stopped him from discovering the apps in his junior year. As he had scurried under the cover of darkness from house to house, he had felt some of his insecurities ebbing away, his bodily hang ups simultaneously assuaged and heightened as his pictures were appraised by the various men and their faceless profiles.

And then, Bobby.

Bobby was never supposed to happen. He was a mistake — a terrible, beautiful mistake.

He had fallen into John's lap — a gold brick smashing through his window in the middle of the night. He, from the very beginning of their arrangement, had been affectionate, accommodating, capable of endless patience in the face of John's unpredictable moods. They had been close immediately, bodies drawn to one another as if by magnetism, hands falling to stomachs — to the soft skin above their hearts, to the hard curves of muscle and bones — bodies twined in sleep as the blood-hot coursing of their shared passion grew faster. 

He knew Bobby was in love with him, it would be impossible not to.

John saw how Bobby watched him, saw how his eyes lit up whenever he thought John couldn't see him looking. He could feel it in the lip-quaking fervor with which he kissed John, welcoming John's tongue into his mouth as if the weight of it might stop him from spilling his truth. He felt it in the warm weight of Bobby's body against him in the night, his head heavy over John's heart, as if he might divine John's own feelings from the rhythm in his chest.

He would need only to ask, in truth.

Frances cleared her throat, bringing John back, her face on his as they paused at a red light.

"So, I know Bobby was over last week on Saturday," she began. 

It was true — he had come over as they had agreed, face soft as he had bundled John into his arms, assuring him he needn't tell him anything he didn't want to. John, overtaken by his understanding, had told him regardless, Bobby's eyes widening with his grin, his hands clutching John's.

"Oh my god, Johnny," he had exclaimed, pulling him close, their cheeks together, "That's… I'm happy for you, man! I hope it goes great."

He had let himself be drawn in by Bobby's boundless optimism, powerful enough to make him believe, even for a moment, that things might indeed go well for him for once.

"He was, yeah."

"I figure you told him about your Dad, given that he knew about the other stuff."

"I did. He didn't ask me to tell him. I just did, it felt right."

"He didn't ask?"

John shook his head.

"He never does. He always waits for me to bring stuff up. I've been with him for a half a year and he's only ever crossed a line once."

The words came out of him before he could stop them, Frances quirking a smile as he blushed.

"Yeah, that was gonna be my question. Did you tell him how you feel about him?"

"I didn't think it was right, yet. I wanted to get everything with Dad out of the way first."

"I understand that, I do. But — you can't keep putting this off. It's not fair to him, it's already not fair to him. You said it yourself, John — you've been together for almost a year. He needs to know you're there for him just like he's there for you. Please, John."

He sniffed, nodding, holding himself back.

"I know. I hate holding him on a leash the way I do. It's not right, Frances. But, I just… I don't know if I can be who he needs."

"You're already who he needs, John."

He felt the tears running down his face, hot and slick along the curve of his cheek.

"We're going away for Spring Break."

"Oh?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

"Oh. I forgot to ask you. Uhh, I got invited upstate for a long weekend."

"Just you and Bobby?"

"No," he shook his head, "Simon and his boyfriend will be there, and Jean, and Ororo. We're going to see a band. They're Ororo's friends. We were gonna get an Airbnb or something and stay for a couple nights together."

"Okay. That's remarkably safer and less hedonistic than what a lot of your classmates will probably get up to in Mexico."

"Oh, there's gonna be a Satanic orgy too but we're waiting to hear back about if we'll get our deposit back as long as we clear off the goat blood."

"Club soda should help there."

They shared a laugh, the tension broken sufficiently for a while, John settling back into himself as they subsided.

"I'm gonna tell him when we're up there, I think. I've been thinking about it for weeks, since we started planning the trip."

"I think he'll be very happy to hear you say that."

"I can pretty much see his face already," John chuckled, "Do you think he'll cry?"

"You're a monster."

"But really though!"

"I don't even think that's a question John. It's a foregone conclusion. I'm more concerned about whether  _ you _ will."

He shrugged.

"Probably. He means a lot to me, so I wouldn't be surprised."

His voice dipped low as he spoke, eyes far-off, chuckling to himself at his emotion.

"He really did a number on you, didn't he?" Frances asked, with a wry smile.

"Frances, I need to be honest with you — he makes my legs turn to jelly when I'm around him. It's fucking twisted — sorry for the language but, it's just… he's something else."

She laughed quietly to herself, suddenly distracted by the electronic voice of her GPS system telling her where she should be turning.

They were almost there.

The street his father now lived on was nondescript, as the previous one had been — another in a grid of pre-planned, orderly lines on a map in a civic office somewhere, tucked away in a filing cabinet dated to the mid-eighties. Rows and rows of discrete, ready-made family homes, white-fenced and green-lawned, each one the mirror of the last. 

He wondered if his father actually enjoyed living there, or if it was just a formality. He had always bristled at the idea of the American Dream, the notion of a perfect nuclear family inspiring mild revulsion in him whenever he thought about it. That had been something private to him, something he kept from John's Mom, something which he had only ever revealed to John after she was gone, after the light had left the room. At the time, John had taken it personally, assuming that his own existence — emblematic in its own way of that fantasy his father abhorred — inspired that same repulsion in his father at the sight of him. Now, detached from that period of his life by several years, face warmed by the early afternoon sun, skin vibrating with some vague sensation of anxiety — or hope, excitement, even — he could see it in a different light, that perhaps the implication of his words had been that John's mother, and by extension John himself, had countered that uneasy sensation in him.

He was waiting outside his front door for them, a nervous habit he had always carried with him, direct from his slightly lonely childhood with two parents who worked evenings to provide for he and Frances. He was smoking — a habit he had quit on John's Mom's request and which he had taken back up almost immediately upon her departure — a nervous plume of smoke ascending above him as if to mark his presence to them. He looked up as the car approached, tossing the end of his cigarette off to the side, straightening slightly, his expression bordering on embarrassed, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't — in his own home.

He waved as they pulled up, John startling himself by waving back, the impulse creeping up on him before he could stifle it. His father seemed equally surprised, both of their hands lowering slowly. Beside him, Frances snorted, shaking her head.

"Like father…"

"Shut up."

They pulled up into his driveway, beside the family car that John remembered falling asleep in the back of countless times, the hum of talk radio lulling him to sleep. The last time he had ridden in it had been that day — shepherded home from school, numb, knuckles still throbbing. Other than a brief spasm of memory, the sight of it didn't affect him, any cruel spikes of that time overshadowed by the warm fuzz of his earlier childhood.

They got out, the illusion of the sun's heat quickly fading as the reality of the car heater was stripped away, the cool air biting at John's skin. John watched his father shift uncomfortably on his feet, unsure of what to do with himself. He jerked his head behind him, gesturing for them to come inside. He held the door wide, John pausing as he got close to him. He looked healthy — his skin flushed with colour, the dark stubble he had let grow in his misery shaved away. He looked taller somehow, his already elongated frame stretched tall, far from his slumped form over the kitchen table as the morning sun warmed the back of his head. His eyes met John's as he approached, a smile — genuine but nervous — creeping onto his features. John matched him, his own brighter. 

"Hi, John. It's… it's good to see you again."

John attempted to respond, his tongue slow in his mouth as it tried to form words. His arms were quicker, his body turning as he pulled his father in and down into a hug, pressing his forehead to his shoulder. He felt the startled fumbling of his father's hands at his back, the shocked intake of breath, and the slow release of tension as he completed their embrace. 

"You look so much better," John said, voice a quavering whisper, squeezing him tightly once around his neck. He was a child again where he stood, warm in his father's arms, elated just to see him as he remembered him.

"I feel better, thank you."

They separated, space rushing to fill the gap between their bodies as Frances watched on, eyes slightly wide, mouth slack.

His father regained his composure, gesturing wide with his hand for them to go inside, John stumbling over the threshold, Frances behind him. The house was as to be expected — too large for a single man living on his own, although bearing the tell tale signs of a bachelor; the misplaced clothing strewn about the furniture and the general miasma of a house not cleaned as often as it should be. John wondered quietly if his father had found himself a girlfriend, if perhaps he was finally moving on. He found himself bereft of the stab of jealousy, the incandescent rage that his father might find peace with someone who wasn't his mother. Instead, he noted only a passive lightness, as if his parents were merely separated by law, not as they were. Knocked from his thoughts by his father's voice, he glanced up at his expectant face.

"Sorry, I was somewhere else. Did you say something?"

"I said did you want a drink, or something to eat, or anything?"

John shook his head, suddenly awkward, the same creeping sensation of being in a new friend's house for the first time, unwilling to impose upon their parents. His father nodded, scratching at the back of his head, preoccupied. Frances rolled her eyes, gesturing to the living room.

"For God's sake, will you two sit down already?"

He and his father shared a sheepish glance, following her into the living room. 

"Sorry about the mess," he said, toeing a shirt behind the couch, out of sight, "My housemate usually does our laundry, but he's out of town."

That explained it, then — his father had a renter, sharing his space. Living alone at his age would be fairly strange, especially in a house like this.

"You never did figure out the washer back at home," Frances replied, bringing John back into the room. 

There was silence then, awkward and uneasy, as the gulf of three years between them asserted itself once more. His father sighed, hands joined in front of his stomach, eyes on the blank television screen.

"So. I guess I have a lot of explaining to do. Where do you want to start?"

His voice was soft, full of emotion he was unwilling to show, John catching the waver he so desperately tried to hide. For his own part, John had actually pre-planned his questions, and so wasn't left floundering as his father was.

"Did you…" he began, struggling to phrase his statement as a question and not an accusation, "When I left, did you hate me?"

He heard his father exhale as if punched in the gut, watched tears well up behind his eyes.

"No, " he shook his head, "No, I didn't. Never."

John nodded, swallowing a sob, willing himself calm.

"Right. That's good. That definitely takes a load off of my back!" he laughed, but it was high-pitched and forced, a desperate attempt to beat back tears.

"When I asked Frances to take you in, it was about getting you somewhere where you could be with someone who was able to be there for you, John," his father continued, holding his eyes, "You knew what it was like then — I wasn't fit to be a parent. I needed to know that you'd have a chance at a normal life. So no, I never hated you. You're my son, how could I?"

"I always thought…" John said, eyes on the floor, knowing if he looked at his father's face he'd break, "I always thought that you couldn't take me anymore. I knew my attitude was rotten back then. I was angry — angry at the world for taking Mom away from us, angry at you for not being able to bring her back and make everything normal again. It wasn't fair. I put too much pressure on you. I wasn't the only person who lost her — she was yours as much as she was mine."

"You had every right to be angry. And why shouldn't your attitude have gone sour? You lost your Mom! And everyone was standing around you, expecting you to be normal, to act like nothing had changed! John," he added, his tone drawing John's gaze up to his face, red and streaked with tears, "When I heard what that kid had said to you, I wanted to kill him myself. And then your school says you can't stay, as if your response was out of the ordinary, as if it was anyone's fault but his own for saying that to you! When I brought you home that day, I know I was quiet, I know I seemed angry — I was. That was the last straw, for me. I needed you out of there, somewhere where no one knew you, where you didn't have to carry your Mom's ghost around with you wherever you went. It broke my heart, John. It broke my heart to watch you leave me, knowing that I couldn't be there for you, but I knew it was best. I wanted you to have a chance to be happy."

John's fingernails dug into his thighs, swallowing breaths, refusing to cry.

"You were right," he managed to choke out.

"What do you mean?"

"You did the right thing."

His father breathed another sigh, leaning back against the sofa, swiping at his eyes.

"Well, the right thing would have been not slipping into alcoholism and abandoning my only son, but yes, I suppose I did."

Frances sat straight at the mention of that word, her own struggles coming back to her, her hand reaching for John's where it sat on the cushion next to her. She spoke, her voice rough, as if coughing her words out.

"Tell him, Stephen."

It was jarring to hear his father's name spoken out loud — John accustomed to only ever referring to him as Dad. He looked at Frances for a brief moment, expression puzzled, before realization crossed his features.

"When you left, I started going to AA," he began, John nodding along, his memory of Frances' stories of her experiences with alcohol ringing in his ears. He clutched her hand back, squeezing her fingers tight in acknowledgement of her strength. "I've been sober for two and a half years. Frances helped me a lot, showed me who to talk to, where I should go. I'm not who I was when I let you go, John."

"I can see that. You look better. You look healthy. You look happy, even."

"That means a lot to me."

There was quiet for a while, the three of them stewing in their emotions. Stephen stared at the ceiling, blinking his tears away, laughing incredulously at the scene around them.

"What a fucking world," he said, shrugging at Frances' admonishing glare at his language. "What? I know damn well he says worse at his age."

John laughed, his father matching him, the two of them filling the room with the sound of their humour, Frances left partially in awe, partially flustered. Eventually, the laughter subsided, Stephen eyeing him wryly, all awkwardness vanished in an instant.

"So, Frances tells me you've got a maybe-boyfriend?"

John balked, back straightening, the sudden revelation that his father knew he was gay hitting him like a freight truck. His head snapped to Frances, who shrugged.

"He's been asking for updates on you for years, what am I supposed to do,  _ not  _ tell him about him?"

"John," his father called, voice bordering on mocking, "It's alright, I know you're gay, son."

"Oh my fucking god."

His father laughed, John left red-faced and incredulous.

"You can only have so many posters of boy bands in your room before someone catches on, John."

"Leave me alone."

"It's fine, it's fine. It's not like I've never been with a guy before. It's normal!"

John's train of thought was replaced with static, the grey hum of a broken signal, unable to process what his father had just said.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh please," he replied, waving a hand, "Your Mom was hardly the first person I'd ever been with! I've had one foot in the other camp for as long as I can remember!"

"Dad, I really do not need to be hearing this right now!"

"Oh relax. What did you think I meant when I said housemate, anyway? You think he's doing my laundry for nothing?"

"Stephen, is this really how you're going to tell your son you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm gonna throw up," John said, rising to his feet.

Stephen's eyes followed him, concerned that he might have crossed a line. 

"John…"

"Relax, I'm just going for a smoke. I need a minute to process all of this."

Stephen nodded, hands raised, Frances still shaking her head across from him. John traipsed out of the living room, pointedly ignoring Frances' hushed admonitions aimed at his father as he slipped out the door. He sat on the porch, fumbling a cigarette out of his pocket, closing his eyes as the smoke hit his lungs. Part of his mind wished he had had the mind to pack a joint, the numbing fizz of marijuana perhaps able to quell the tumultuous confusion roiling in his head. 

He pulled out his phone, swiping across to the one number he needed to hear from. After some time, his phone blaring its dial tone in his ear, Bobby picked up, his voice out of breath.

"Hi, sorry, I was at the gym. What's up?"

"Bobby, you have no idea. I'm at my Dad's."

He heard Bobby's intake of breath, the rough exhale that accompanied it.

"Oh geez. Are you okay?'

"More than okay," he laughed, "I'm doing great!"

"Are you serious, or was that supposed to be sarcastic?"

"No, I'm serious."

"That's good news, Johnny," he said, voice soft, his smile audible.

"He just dropped something on me that I needed to take a second to process, though."

"Oh no," Bobby replied, fearing the worst.

"Yeah. Apparently my Dad has a boyfriend now."

They spoke for some time, John's cigarette wilting away to nothing, entirely unconscious of his father's presence behind him as his conversation with Bobby went on.

They went back and forth for the length of Bobby's drive from the gym to work, John asking him how he was, how school had been — anything to inject normalcy into their conversation, to ignore the pulsing urge in his chest to tell Bobby that he loved him. Bobby prattled on, oblivious to John's thoughts, laughing along as he regaled him with the mundanity of his day.

"Some guy tried to hit on me while I was getting dressed in the locker room," he said, John swallowing the lurching stab of jealousy that shot through him. "I told him I had a boyfriend."

"Oh so I'm your fake boyfriend now whenever someone you don't like comes along, huh?" he teased, heart thumping at the notion that Bobby thought of him like that.

"Listen, it's easier this way! I can show them pictures of us until they leave me alone. Always does the trick!"

They had laughed at that, each of them desperately concealing their true feelings, Bobby signing off with a muffled kiss, his lips pressing to the microphone of his mobile, John laughing along with him. Behind him, he heard his father clear his throat, turning to meet his face, his grin bordering on mocking.

"Look, I'm not here to make fun of you," he said, lowering himself with a groan to the porch, his knee knocking against John's. "Was that your boyfriend?"

John looked at his feet, fussing with the grass, shrugging noncommittally.

"Not exactly."

"But you like him."

"I love him," he replied, the firmness in his tone surprising him.

"Have you told him that?"

"Not yet. I… I was scared."

"Why is that?'

"Because, up until today, I believed that everyone who's ever loved me has left me, one way or another, and I didn't want to give myself over to him."

His father stiffened beside him, his breath hitching.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not yours either."

"I just have all these thoughts — what if he gets bored of me, what if he cheats, what if he leaves me? I love him so much it makes my stomach turn, and I just don't want to have to face the idea that he might not love me the same."

John felt his father's arm snake around his shoulder, pulling him in.

"Oh John, I wish I had the answer — be a lot easier if I did! All I can tell you is that if you love him like that, you should tell him, because I bet he feels just the same as you do." 

"I know he does," John said quietly, his mind casting back to the morning after David's party, "He told me. He thought I was asleep, he thought I couldn't hear him."

"Well then there's your answer, Johnny, you just have to take the leap."

"Please don't call me that," he said, face creasing in disgust.

"Is that his name for you?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Does it make you happy?'

"Indescribably."

Stephen laughed, loud, his face aimed at the sky.

"I'm happy for you, son. I'm glad you found someone."

"He knows about what happened with us, with Mom. He's the only one of my friends who knows. He helped me, that day I caught your phone call."

"I heard about that," Stephen said, thumb stroking along John's clothed shoulder, "Frances told me you were in a bad state. I didn't— I'm sorry."

"It's okay. He was there for me. I called him, and he came running like he had nowhere else in the world to be. He held me in the backseat of his car and told me everything was going to be okay. He didn't ask me to tell him what was wrong, he didn't pry into me, he didn't treat me like I was broken. He just sat there, and listened to me."

"He sounds like a good guy."

"I love him, Dad," John said, repeating himself, both arms around his father's neck as tears pricked at his eyes. "What do I do if it all goes wrong?"

"From what it sounds like to me, it won't go wrong. But, if it does, I'll be here. Just like I never was back then. I'll be ready for you. You can stay with me, even. I have a room for you, all made up, just in case you ever wanted to."

"I love you, Dad."

His father was quiet, breathing slowly — deep inhales and slow exhales in an attempt to calm himself — kissing the top of John's head.

"I love you so much, John. I wish I could have been there for you before."

"You're here now, that's what matters."

"You're awfully forgiving for someone who's lost as much as you have."

John chuckled against him, sniffling lightly.

"I don't wanna lose any more."

John let the moment sit for a while, letting the sun wash over them, warming their bones where they had grown stiff in their embrace. Eventually, he pulled away, knocking at his father's knee with his own, their faces meeting in mischief.

"So, you got a boyfriend too, huh?"

Stephen's face went red, shrugging, looking remarkably like his son in that moment.

"I do, yeah. We met about a year ago — a coffee thing organised by the AA people. He's sweet. He moved in a couple of months back. It was a slow thing — he used to spend the night a couple of days a week, and then all of a sudden he has a drawer in my dresser, his own toothbrush. Next thing I know he's paying his share of the utilities! You'd like him. He wanted to meet you, but he's out of town with work this weekend."

"Do you love him?"

"Do you think he'd be sharing my bed if I didn't? He's helped me a lot. He pushed me into contacting you, into setting all this up. Told me I'd regret it if I didn't. I knew he was right — I'd been thinking the same myself for a while — but sometimes it just takes that other voice to push you."

"I think it's so messed up that you're bi, or whatever."

"What do you mean?" he replied, chucking

"You're my Dad! You're supposed to be straight! I'm not supposed to have to consider you being even in any way similar to me! You're supposed to be an asexual being who only did it once to have me."

"Unfortunately not!"

"Does he know about me?"

"Yes, John, he knows about my only son. Are you nuts?"

John shrugged.

"I dunno! Maybe you were waiting to bring me up!"

"Oh yeah, sure," he replied, rolling his eyes, "'Hey, baby, we've been together a while now, I think it's time I told you about my son who I made live with my sister because I'm an alcoholic', I'm sure that would have gone down well!"

"Do you call him baby?"

"It's none of your business what I call him."

John snorted, the two of them breaking out into smiles.

"I'm happy for you, Dad. I thought I'd be mad that you had moved on from Mom but I'm not."

"Me too. I keep thinking I'm gonna feel guilty, but I know she wouldn't want that."

"You think she's watching us, up there?"

"I do," he nodded, "I like to think she'd be happy that we're doing okay now."

"Maybe we could go visit her?"

John hadn't been to his mother's grave in a long time — a summertime visit with Frances a year previous proving itself too affecting. He had remembered crying, wailing into Frances' shoulder that he wished he could have had another moment to say goodbye to her, a single second stretched to infinity to tell her how much she meant to him.

"Whenever you want to, son. Just let me know and I'll take you."

"I'm busy for spring break — we're going upstate for a while — but after, definitely. We can put a date on it later, make it real."

Stephen nodded, his smile hooking the edges of his lips upwards.

"Who's 'we'? Are you and your boy sneaking off for a romantic weekend instead of going to Cancun like the rest of your classmates?"

John's face blushed tomato red, shaking his head roughly.

"Not just us — my friend Ororo knows a band who are playing. We're gonna go watch, give them support."

"Ah, I see. And I'm sure the motel will only have two sets of double beds, and you'll be forced to sleep with him for the two nights?"

"It's an Airbnb, and there's six of us, in total, but yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, be safe, in any case."

"That sounds so weird coming out of your mouth."

"I know. It made me wanna throw up a little."

"We should go back inside before Frances starts to feel left out," John said, pushing up to stand, turning towards the door. Stephen remained where he was, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

"You go ahead, I got a missed call from the other guy. I'm gonna see what's up."

John's hand fell to his shoulder briefly, squeezing once, shuffling back through the door as he listened to the muffled voice on the other end, followed by his father's cut-off response.

"...No it's okay, I just stepped out for a minute to call you, it's no trouble."

Frances was still sitting in the same spot on the couch as when he had left, her posture more relaxed, the television switched onto the news. She looked up as he entered, smiling at him, warm and genuine.

"How are you doing?"

"Good," he said, and meant it, "I wasn't expecting it to be this easy. I didn't think it would be so simple to just forgive him like that, and for him to explain himself the way he did."

"I guess I didn't think it would go like this either. I knew it would go well, but I just… I dunno. I'm glad."

"Did you know about his boyfriend?"

"Not exactly. I knew he talked about a friend he had made at AA, but I assumed that's all they were. Your father hadn't even so much as mentioned a man since he got out of college, I figured it was a phase or something."

"That's not very progressive of you," John replied, with a teasing grin.

"Yes, well, hopefully this guy really does do his laundry because this place is a godawful mess. How does one man even generate this much crap in a couple of days?"

She wasn't wrong. There were t-shirts across the back of the couch, and an armchair filled with discarded jeans and sweaters, piled in a conglomerate mass that looked as though it might spring to life at any moment.

"I'll have you know he does the laundry by choice," Stephen said, returning to the room, "He makes me do everything else."

He settled back onto the couch, the three of them spending the afternoon quietly, letting their emotions taper off into a pleasant baseline, removed from their tangled, tattered past. Stephen made them dinner — proving to them that he did, in fact, know how to perform at least one task in the home. They left as the sky began to darken, parting ways at the door, John sharing with him a fond hug.

"Come over whenever you like, you're always welcome here, son."

"You say that now — just wait 'til I'm over every weekend eating your food."

He and Frances left, the return journey decidedly more pleasant, John's chest free of the vice grip of anxiety, his breath coming to him more easily. On his way back upstairs to his room, he stopped to hold Frances for a moment, his arms tight around her.

"Thank you — for everything. I couldn't have asked for a better person in my life than you. I love you."

She hugged him back, her words soft in his ears, brimming with emotion.

"Living with you has never been anything but easy, John. I love you too."

He straightened, sniffling slightly, dabbing at his eyes.

"I'm gonna go call my boyfriend."

Her laughter followed him up the stairs as he stepped into his room, shutting the door behind him, leaning against the wood, staring around at his space as if it might have been transformed in the hours he had left it. Everything was still where it was supposed to be — his rumpled covers still inviting him to slide under and shut away the world; his laptop still on his desk, his half-finished college essay still pending his approval; the small pile of Bobby's shirts that had agglomerated into the pile of his own clothes in the corner of the room. He retrieved one, holding it to his face, breathing in the smell of chlorine, of sweat, of Bobby's aftershave all woven together into the fabric. He held it to his chest, swaying lightly on the balls of his feet, watching the last moments of the sunset out of his window. 

He contemplated telling Bobby over the phone, giving up the joy of seeing his face light up in real-time in favour of the immediacy of freeing the two of them from their infuriating dance around one another. He stared at his phone, a purposefully-unread message from Bobby left on the screen as a reminder.

_ Im all done with work whenever you wanna call _

He changed, tugging a pair of sweatpants over his legs as he settled under the covers, his phone by his head as he tapped at the screen. There were a few moments of dial tone before Bobby picked up, the sound of his voice down the line sending that same rocket flare shooting through John's chest.

_ "Hi, Johnny, how you doing?" _

"I'm good, Bobby. I'm really good."

He told Bobby everything that had happened, how his Dad had explained himself, how his world had righted itself with the simplicity of a single conversation. Bobby listened intently, John catching the sound of stray sniffles as he spoke, Bobby clearly overcome by something.

_ "And he's got a boyfriend, huh?"  _ he asked, voice teasing.

"Don't get me started."

_ "Is that weird, for you?" _

"Uhh… it's a little weird, I guess, yeah. Mostly because you know, you figure your parents have always been together and have never done anything with anyone else. So not only is my Dad still going at it, he's not even straight!"

_ "I think if my parents split up and my Dad started fuckin' dudes, my head would explode." _

"Bobby, I've met your Dad, and I don't mean this in a bad way but he doesn't seem like he has ever had sex in his life."

Bobby's laughter was liquid down the phone line, sparkling in the air as he made no attempt to stifle it. He calmed eventually, the two of them laying quietly together, not speaking.

_ "Are you coming to that party next week?" _ Bobby asked, voice hopeful.

"I am. I'll be a little late, Frances and I are doing stuff beforehand. I think Ororo is gonna pick me up."

_ "Good, good." _

"I'm actually looking forward to it, now."

Bobby hummed down the line, John continuing.

"You know, I never really liked them before — I always felt like no one really wanted me there, which was totally bullshit because otherwise I wouldn't be getting invited-"

"Exactly."

"But I think I need to drop the 'too cool' act, and maybe, like, open myself up to people more and stop telling myself that they hate me before they've even said hello."

"Listen, I hope this doesn't have anything to do with that shit I said to you at David's," Bobby began, voice guilty.

"Well, yes and no. You weren't wrong in some of what you said, Bobby, I'm not gonna lie to you. But all of that attitude just came out of me not wanting to be rejected. People can't tell you to fuck off if you tell them first, you know?"

"Right."

"But I don't need to do that anymore. I need to start giving people the  _ chance _ to disappoint me first."

Bobby laughed again, John grinning along with him.

"Good to see you haven't totally changed!"

"Never."

Bobby yawned loudly, the sound stretching long, John feeling a gut-spasm of desire, longing to have him next to him once again to watch the top of his ruffled brown hair settle over his chest as Bobby pulled him close.

"I think I'm gonna head off soon, I'm exhausted."

"That's alright, it's been a long day for me too."

"I'm happy for you, Johnny."

"I'm happy too, for once."

"Are you busy this week, other than the party?"

"Not any more than usual."

"You wanna come over to mine after class on Wednesday? I'll pick you up from school."

"We're going to your place? What, did you drug your parents or something?"

"They're visiting my uncle all this week — he lives in Hawaii."

"And you didn't wanna go with?"

"Are you kidding me? The offer of a week of an empty house and you think I'm gonna waste it sweating in Hawaii with those idiots and my brother?"

John chuckled at the image of their conversation, Bobby practically pushing them out the door.

"I can come over, then, yeah. Sounds good."

"Okay, I'll see you then. G'night, Johnny."

"Night."

He hung up, John blinking back to reality, a notification on his messages catching his attention.

_ Hey, it's Dad. _

_ Frances gave me your number. _

_ She probably should have asked you, first, but still _

_ It's all good _

_ It was good to see you today _

_ You too. _

_ Hopefully I'll see you soon _

_ Love you _

_ I love you too. _

  
  



	12. Track 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and John go to another party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the title of this chapter:  
> In case you're not aware, all of the chapter titles so far have been Charli XCX songs, as well as the work's title being one of her albums.  
> Track 10 is the last track from Pop 2, which evolved more recently into the song Blame It On Your Love.  
> As you read, you'll understand why I chose that title.  
> Why would I call chapter 12 'Track 10'? Because two of the chapters in this work aren't technically numbered, and as such this *is* the tenth numbered chapter.  
> Am I insane? Yes.

_ This might be a little personal, but I need to share it with someone before I go insane _

John stared at the message, bewildered, for a long while. It was late, so deep into the night that they were almost out the other side, the glare of his phone screen searing his retinas into oblivion. As he typed out a brief reply —  _ Go on  _ — he could hear Bobby in the bathroom, the running water of the tap as he brushed his teeth. 

It was a few days after his reunion with his father, John retreating from his still-confused emotions right into the easy comfort of Bobby's arms. They hadn't even had sex that night, which had been possibly a first in their relationship. Rather, he had picked John up from school as promised, the two of them driving into the city. They spent the waning hours of the afternoon wandering quietly together around various stores — Bobby stopping them in a sporting goods place while he searched for new swimming tights to replace the ones he had ripped while trying to tear them off after one of his practices, in a hurry to get himself dry and over to John, who had been expecting him. John bought himself clothes — an assortment of black t-shirts, each bearing the names and logos of bands Bobby had never seen before — shrugging at Bobby's shaking head, their fingers brushing lightly as Bobby reached to grab the bag for him, lugging it along with his own.

They had gotten back to Bobby's late into the evening, slinking into his kitchen, where John had made them dinner, brought easily together by the ungodly abundance of food in his family's fridge. They had eaten in near silence at the island, high on a pair of stools, Bobby's foot hooked around John's ankle. Bobby had finished first, as per usual, swinging himself around to face John, one hand flat on the small of his back, a single warm-lipped kiss to his neck before he pushed up to start on their dishes.

The night had been whittled away in Bobby's bed, John in one of his shirts, hanging loose over his underwear, Bobby revelling in the sensation of the bare skin of his chest rustling gently against the cotton. His room was chilly, the two of them pressed close as Bobby's laptop glared brightly into the darkness around them. Barely paying attention to the screen, John had allowed himself to sink into the feeling of Bobby at his back, the warmth of his skin, the gentle hardness of his muscled frame wrapped around John's body, his breath light as it ruffled the back of his head. They had kissed, for a while, not going much beyond it. Silently, they seemed each to have reached a tipping point, the final reality of their situation sinking in, fully realized in all but words. Briefly, John considered telling him, chickening out at the last moment, their eyes locked for an almost-uncomfortable amount of time, Bobby breaking the tension with his face buried in John's neck, his fingers probing ticklish into his sides.

He was drawn back to himself by another message from his father.

It was a voice message, John's brow furrowing.

_ Be careful with the volume on it _

John pressed play, cautiously upping the slider on his phone until it was barely audible. It took a second playthrough — and a slightly higher volume — before he heard it, a beat of silence followed by the sound of a semi-truck running over a bag full of broken cutlery. Snoring, loud to the point of it being worrying.

_ Was that Logan? _

His father had sent him a picture of the pair of them together by way of introduction a couple of days previous — a snap from what looked like a hike, somewhere in the forested mountains upstate, his Dad's arm around the other's neck, several inches below him. His Dad was almost six and a half feet in his boots, the top of the other man's head barely passing his chest. He was stocky, though, a compact body, very obviously muscled even through his many layers of thermal and waterproof clothes. He was hirsute to the point of it being ridiculous, according to his Dad, although he didn't go further than that. 

_ It is. _

_ It's not usually this bad _

_ Is he _

_ Like _

_ Okay? _

_ Not if this keeps up much longer _

_ If you need to go on the run can I have your house _

_ No _

_ Ugh _

He was startled by Bobby's return, missing the click of the bathroom light as he switched it off, his sudden shadowy presence next to the bed registering briefly in John's prehistoric lizard brain as a fatal threat.

"Who are you texting at this hour?" he asked, his sleepy voice quiet as he crawled over John's body to slide in behind him. There was a brief moment during the movement where he completely covered John, his arms caged on either side of his body. Part of him wished he would have stopped there, that he could have lowered himself down, that they could have slept like that, Bobby's weight insistent over him. He didn't, however, choosing instead to pull John over to him, chin on his shoulder as he watched his screen interestedly.

"My dad."

"Ew, isn't he like forty, why is he up so late?"

He played Bobby the audio message, Bobby's face grimacing at the noise.

"That's his boyfriend."

"Jesus Christ. I don't snore like that, do I?"

"You think I'd be here if you did?"

"True," he shrugged, settling his face in between John's shoulder blades, his breathing already slowing as it ghosted through the thin material of John's shirt. He wound their legs together beneath the covers, John continuing his scroll through his social media feed, enjoying the peace of Bobby's sleeping form before letting himself drift off. A final series of messages came in from his Dad, a quick swipe of his thumb flicking him back to their thread.

_ He just woke himself up _

_ World's quietest sorry _

_ Rolls over, asleep in five seconds _

_ I literally cannot stand him _

_ Good thing you're lying down _

_ Hang on here kid, if anyone's making dad jokes it's me _

_ Shut up, go to sleep _

_ I will, actually. _

_ Tell Bobby I said hi _

_ Love you _

_ I won't _

_ Love you too _

He felt his mind drift, down Bobby's street, out onto the highway, up and into his Dad's house. He wondered what it was like for him — halfway through his forties, widowed, texting his son as if he were a friend and not a parent, another man asleep next to him in his bed. It was, in many ways, absurd to John. He wondered if his Dad was affectionate with his man the way he had been with John's Mom. They had never been shy in their love, his arms around her whenever they would pass one another through the day. They would sit together on the couch, not apart like the parents of John's friends. They would talk and laugh and joke together like friends, not like two people trapped in an inconvenient arrangement. He wondered if his Dad and Logan were like that. 

Again, there should have been some white-hot stab of jealousy through John's heart — the childish possessiveness over his own memories, the desire to preserve history as he remembered it. He felt nothing of the sort, even tearing up slightly at the idea of his Dad finding happiness elsewhere. He felt Bobby sigh in his sleep, his chest rising and falling quickly away, breath rushing hot. John smiled, reaching for his charger, Bobby whining behind him, his rustling disturbing his peace.

His phone set on the bedside table, he rolled over, bundling Bobby close to him, a kiss to the crown of his head met with a pleased hum from deep in Bobby's throat. He stroked his hair as he let sleep come gently to him, making sure Bobby was well and truly asleep before he spoke.

"I love you, Bobby, sleep tight."

He hoped, if the words didn't exactly reach him through the mists of sleep, that the sentiment would. He kissed Bobby's forehead, already lightly sheened in sweat, and closed his eyes. 

He was almost ready.

There was just one more thing left to figure out.

* * *

John spent the last few hours of school in quiet anticipation.

His classmates, at least the ones he knew enough to speak with, were buzzing with excitement about that week's party later that night — in many ways a precursor to their semi-planned debauchery over the Spring Break. He had been asked several times if he was coming, the incongruity of his enthusiastic response leaving them perplexed but optimistic all the same. Jean had noticed, an inquisitive tilt of her head accompanied by a gentle smile thrown his way when no one was looking. He found himself smiling broader at jokes during lunch, laughing louder, pleased at himself for allowing the nervous tension in his chest to release, to allow himself to float buoyant in the easy atmosphere.

After lunch, some of the dread began to settle in. He had, for some unfathomable reason, scheduled with his Dad for them to visit the cemetery that afternoon after school. Part of his reasoning had been the party itself, that if things went wrong, he at least had the promise of alcohol, and Bobby's presence. As lunch came to an end, John made further plans with Ororo, who was that week's designated driver, upon John's request.

_Would you mind_ _being the driver this week?_

_ Okay _

_ Are you not coming or something? _

_ No _

_ I am _

_ I was planning on maybe having a little more than I usually do _

_ Oh _

_ Any reason why? _

She knew of his general aversion to alcohol, to being drunk, and so his sudden desire to get tipsy that night must have sent alarm bells ringing in her mind. His heart had jolted at her display of concern, a smile broadening across his face.

_ I do have a reason _

_ A good one _

_ I'll tell you in the car _

_ Okay _

_ It better be good _

He had thanked her, pocketing his phone, watching the hands of the clock inch inexorably towards the end of the day. The class was hot — the heating cranked up high to compensate for the frosty bite of the outside air, the weather still clinging to winter's chill, even as spring pushed inevitably forwards. He felt sweat trickling down the back of his shirt, an almost-formal button up which he planned to vanish under a sweater in the cemetery in order to hide his sweat stains. 

He exhaled sharply as the final bell rang, expelling the pent up tension in his lungs, hurrying out into the parking lot, where his Dad's boyfriend's car was waiting for him — sleek, silver, low to the ground; the object of envious looks from his classmates, especially some of the football guys. Behind the wheel, however, sat not his Dad, but Logan, who waved sheepishly. John made his way over, ducking inside, Logan patting him gently on the shoulder by way of greeting, his awkwardness palpable through the fabric of John's shirt.

"Hey, kid, your Dad's still at work, so he asked me to come pick you up. He said he texted you, but goin' off the look on your face, I don't think he remembered."

John shook his head.

"Nope. It's alright. Thanks for taking the time out, I hope you didn't have to call into work or anything."

He didn't know what Logan actually did for a living, his Dad having glossed over it, evidently not sure himself. Something to do with computers, he had said.

"I had the day off, it's no trouble."

His demeanor was gruff without being rude — taciturn just like his Dad, able to carry a silence without it feeling threatening. John took him in as he drove, trying not to feel like he was ogling his Dad's man the entire time. Short as he was, he took up a lot of space regardless, his broad frame filling the driver's seat in its entirety, spilling over into John's vicinity whenever he reached for the gear shift. Silently, he congratulated his Dad on his catch, still trying not to feel like a creep.

"How're you feeling about everythin'?" he asked at a red light, his voice smoker-rough.

"About what?"

"Me and your Dad," he said, eyes on the road, one hand running nervously through his hair.

"Oh. It's cool. I'm happy for Dad. And you don't seem like a murderer or anything so…" 

John trailed off as Logan made a sound somewhere between choking and groaning at his words, suddenly worried that he might have said the wrong thing. His anxiety dissipated as Logan laughed, another low, rough sound, flashing his teeth.

"He warned me you two had the same kinda humour. Pair'a weirdos, that's all you are."

"What does that make you, if you're with him?"

Logan shrugged, his grin evening out.

"Very true."

"Do you have any dirt on him? Does he talk in his sleep? Is he a slob? Does he still watch General Hospital?"

"I've been sworn to secrecy, unfortunately. He told me you'd ask."

John shrugged, palms to the roof.

"I tried."

They passed the rest of the drive in silence, easy and pleasant between them, pulling shortly up to the house, their old family car still parked once more in its spot.

There was a brief changeover, Logan and John emerging out of his car, his Dad ducking out of the front door, briefly reaching for Logan with one arm, bending low to kiss his cheek, John looking away with polite disgust.

"Thanks for that," he said, quietly to the top of Logan's head.

"Any time. Uhh… I don't wanna tell you to have a good time, but you know…"

"I know. Thanks."

They separated, Logan waving the two of them off, John belting himself into the passenger seat, his Dad folding himself in beside him.

"Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up, I got held up at work and then there was a shitload of traffic."

"It's all good."

They were quiet as he pulled out of the driveway and onto the winding series of roads that would take them to the cemetery.

"It wasn't awkward with him, was it?"

His Dad was sweating, leg jingling with nerves.

"Not at all. He's cool. I see why you like him."

"Oh, was it his sterling personality of grunts and monosyllabic answers, or the smoker's cough?"

"I was thinking the muscles and the nice car but yeah, sure."

His Dad's face flushed with colour as he swiped at the back of his head with his palm, laughing gently.

"I guess. I don't really-"

John raised a hand.

"Dad, please don't try to tell me that 'you don't really notice the muscles'," he said, voice mocking, "You'd have to have lost literally every one of your senses not to."

"I mean, it's more than just- you know… ugh!" He trailed off with a frustrated groan, "I'm not talking about my sex life with you."

"I'd love if you wouldn't."

"He's just, he's a good guy, on top of looking how he does. He gets me."

"Is it confusing for you?"

His Dad wouldn't look at him, but he nodded.

"I hadn't been with anyone since your Mom, and so I'm kind of having to reach back through twenty-something years of history to remember how the hell you're supposed to be with someone when you're not married with a kid."

"But he understands, and it makes you feel weird to have someone who isn't pushing you and who doesn't ask for more than you're able to give. It makes you suspicious, of him and of yourself."

His Dad's eyes widened, head flickering between John and the road. At one point he reached for him, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.

"Who the fuck are you and what did you do with my son?"

John shrugged quietly, his voice low.

"Bobby does the same for me. You and I don't have exactly the same circumstances, but it's close, I guess."

"He's very good to me, and I don't know if I would have been able to come back to you when I did, had he not been there for me to fall back on."

"I don't think I would have come, if I didn't know Bobby would have been there to pick me back up afterwards."

"Guess we both got lucky."

John hummed, letting their words sit briefly before he spoke again.

"I'm gonna tell him, tonight, at the party."

"I hope it goes well. I'm sure he'll be really happy."

"Thanks."

"Do you think you'll cry?"

"Shut up."

"Also," his Dad went on, "What party? Is this a regular thing? Does Frances know?"

"Oh my god, relax. I have two beers at most, ever. I'm usually the driver, and no one really ever gets super messy."

"Okay but it's still underage and I'm still supposed to reprimand you about it for at least another thirty seconds if I wanna be a good parent."

"Okay go ahead then."

He took a deep inhale, as if preparing for a speech, before letting it go, shrugging.

"You're responsible, I don't really care. Everybody drinks when they're underage."

"Besides, it should be the sex you're mad about."

"Why? It's not like you can get him pregnant!"

John lapsed into stunned silence, unable to find a response to that coming out of his Dad's mouth.

An air of sobriety took over the car as they turned the corner onto the grounds of the cemetery. They had to park in a lot off to one side, emerging out into the cold, John pulling his sweater on over his head, fussing with the collar of his shirt as it poked through. As they walked, he felt his Dad's fingers fumble with the back of it, smoothing out the part he had missed. The touch was familiar, a practiced ritual remembered from his childhood, stuffed into a fussy, uncomfortable outfit on the rare occasions they would visit his mother's parents. She laid next to them now, somewhere among the stones. His Dad checked his phone routinely, having marked the spot on his maps where she lay, guiding them through the rows swiftly.

They found her soon enough, a simple grey tombstone, her name engraved on it —  _ Wife and Mother _ , along with her birthday and date of death resting just beneath. John took a deep breath as they approached, holding it until they stood together at the foot of the grave, releasing it slowly.

"If you want, you can uhh… you could maybe talk to her. I do it. I dunno if you maybe think it's dumb but-"

"Hi, Mom," he began, his Dad quickly falling silent beside him. "Sorry it took me so long to come back and see you — last time kinda took it out of me. I brought Dad! Or, well, he brought me, I guess. You probably know all about it, unless you've got better stuff to watch up there — or over there, or wherever. But yeah! He's back — we're back — and we're trying to be happy again, or at least something like that."

His stream of words stopped as abruptly as they had begun, his voice suddenly cutting off. His Dad reached for him, one palm against his shoulder, and made as if to speak. John spoke over him, his words blurting out.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I love you."

The hand at his shoulder tightened to a firm grasp, his Dad pulling him into his side. John's hand wound itself into a fist around the flowers they had brought, the sound of the rustling plastic bringing him back to himself. He knelt, placing them gently across the stones, rising again, stepping away, his back to the grave, collecting himself. His Dad spoke while his back was turned.

"Hi, sweetheart. I told you I'd bring him next time!" His voice began light, slipping lower as he crouched, fiddling with the flowers for something to do, "Recovery is going well — almost at three years sober now. Haven't thought about a beer in about six months, which is nice. Still smoking, but I'm working on it. Logan is good, he said to say hello, which felt odd given that I'm speaking to a lump of stone, but I know what he meant. We've been talking about a dog, maybe. I know you always hated having them in the house but I think it would be nice."

He glanced over his shoulder at John, who was still turned away, but standing straight.

"Okay. I love you. I'll talk to you soon."

He rose, John turning into him, surprising him with a pair of arms around his waist, cheek pressed into his jacket. He brought his arms around John's shoulders, one palm flat atop his head, swaying with him.

"I love you, Dad."

"Thanks. I love you too. I'm glad you came with me today."

"I miss her."

"I know, son."

They stood together for a long while, watching the shadows of the stones grow longer in the waning afternoon light. 

Eventually, they collected themselves, and returned to the car.

* * *

It was dark by the time John's Dad dropped him home, reaching across the console to pull him in for a hug, which he returned gladly.

"I hope that isn't going to ruin that party for you tonight."

"I dunno. I feel okay. Happy, even. I guess visiting her made everything with you and me feel a little more real."

His Dad swallowed, blinking back what John tried to pretend wasn't tears.

"I'm gonna cry about what you just said later, I need you to know that."

"Well you've got a man at home you can dry those tears on."

"True. Have a good night. Call me if anything goes wrong or you need a ride home, okay?"

He nodded, slipping out of the car, Frances waiting for him at the door. They paused in the warm light from inside, watching his father pull away, Frances waving to him. She took John by the shoulders, holding him slightly away from her as she inspected his face.

"How was it?"

"Good. Great, even. I'm glad we did it."

She nodded, releasing him, the two of them making their way inside into the warmth. 

"So, this party, who's picking you up and where are you staying?"

"Ororo's coming for me in about an hour. She's the driver for this one, and then I'm staying at Bobby's — his parents are away, he doesn't live far from the dude, so we'll probably just walk back, unless he's a total mess."

"Right. Sounds good to me!"

John nodded, taking a half-step up the stairs before turning to speak.

"I'm gonna tell him, tonight."

"Best of luck with that."

They laughed together, John hurrying himself into the shower to rinse off his nervous sweat from earlier that day.

Ororo messaged him that she was on her way as he stood staring at the clothes he had laid out for that night. He didn't often obsess over the particulars of his outfits, usually preferring to throw on whatever and approach the night with a blasé, noncommittal attitude. That night felt different, however, the anticipation of his confession to Bobby hanging over his head, driving him to second guess his choices. He settled eventually on his first plan, thumping down the stairs in a hurry, pausing by Frances where she sat watching the news.

"Ororo's outside, I'm heading out."

"Alright," she said, nodding, "Be safe. And good luck with Bobby — not that you need it."

He smiled at her, broad and genuine, turning out of the door and down their driveway to Ororo's car.

"Hi baby!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. They hadn't seen one another since their last movie night, school and family matters taking hold. 

"Hi, bestie. Sorry I haven't been around — family stuff."

It occurred to him in that moment that she knew nothing of his family situation — his mother's absence or his father's condition. He toyed with telling her, with coming clean finally as he should have done a long time ago. Yet, his thoughts drifted to Jean, who would still remain out of the loop — as well as Simon and Isaac, who were close enough to them all now to know. He bit his tongue, unsure of when might be the right time to spill his truth to the four of them.

"It's okay, lotta that going around at the moment," she replied, voice sympathetic, "Although, you said you had a good reason for making my ass be everyone's chauffeur tonight."

"Oh, yeah. I uhh… I'm gonna tell Bobby that I want him to be my boyfriend tonight."

He watched her hands twitch where they sat on the steering wheel, her eyes widening.

"Oh wow. I guess you heard us talking about him, huh?"

"Well, no. But like I knew. I've known he was in love with me for a while."

"So why leave it this long?" she asked, catching the hurt look on his face, "Sorry, I don't want to be a bitch, but you know what I mean."

"No, I know," he sighed, shifting in his seat, "I was scared, I guess. I don't love the idea of being vulnerable."

"Do you think he'll cry?"

"Everyone has been asking me that."

"That's a yes."

"Yes, he definitely will."

They broke out into laughter, Ororo desperately trying to still herself before she crashed them into a light pole.

"I'm happy for you."

"Thanks."

They pulled up to the party while things were in full swing, music already thumping out of the building and into the night. Ororo slipped away as they entered, off to find Jean, who had already requested extraction from a group of people she had no intentions of speaking to, yet had been roped into sitting with regardless. John let her go, dodging his way through the hallways of the house towards the kitchen where Bobby awaited him. They had texted earlier on, Bobby wondering if they were on their way.

_ Almost there?  _ he had asked, his message flashing up on John's phone, illuminating his face in the dark cabin of Ororo's car.

_ Few minutes more _

_ Can you get me a drink? _

_ What do you want :) _

_ Whatever you're having _

He had spent a long while looking at the emoji Bobby had sent, bewildered at how it managed to perfectly convey Bobby's smile through such simple characters.

The kitchen was crowded, Bobby jostled endlessly where he stood by the sink, eyes on his phone, two red solo cups resting beside him on the counter. Bobby seemed to radiate light, standing out from those around him, incandescent in his own little world. John approached him, Bobby looking up as he sensed his presence, that million-dollar smile lighting up his face as he registered him. They hugged, John kissing his neck as their arms wound around each other, shout-whispering to him over the music.

"Good to see you, baby."

Bobby twisted his head to bring their lips together, meeting in a brief kiss.

"Someone must have missed me," he said, handing John his drink, the two of them moving back into the main room, their classmates scattered around. They found an empty spot on a couch — room enough for one — Bobby glancing at him as they approached.

"You wanna sit?"

John jerked his chin at the couch, taking a long sip of his drink — trying not to grimace at the strength of it. Bobby sat, John ducking easily into his lap, back against the arm of the couch, Bobby's arm snaking around him. His arm found its way around Bobby's neck, fingers winding into his hair, scratching idly, the two of them sharing a smile and a laugh as some of John's classmates approached. John spoke with them, going back and forth with their jokes, his laughter loud and heartfelt, Bobby left only to watch him in silence, a smile playing wide across his lips. 

The night went on, Bobby joining in with the jokes and laughter, sneaking incredulous kisses along John's neck whenever the moment presented itself, rewarded each time with a fond scratch to the back of his head, John's nails raking across just the spot that he liked. John rose a few times to grab the two of them another drink, Bobby's eyes narrowing as John went past his usual limit.

"Hey, you alright tonight?" he asked, eyeing John's third rum mix suspiciously.

He beamed back down at him, nuzzling his cheek against the top of Bobby's head.

"Just letting loose a little. Don't worry, I've got my man looking after me," he replied, two fingers under Bobby's chin to draw their lips together. He watched Bobby's eyes widen at his words, felt his surprised exhale against his lips as they kissed, oblivious to anything around them. As they pulled away, John kissed his nose, nuzzling into him again.

"So, I'm your man now, huh?" Bobby asked, grin lopsided, aiming for humour. John met his gaze, face serious, voice low in his ear.

"You've always been my man, Bobby. You know that. Always."

Bobby's response was cut off by the arrival of yet more classmates, accompanied by Simon and Isaac, who appeared to be flushed and slightly out of breath.

"What's up, boys?" Simon asked, reaching for Bobby to pull him into a one-armed hug — as far as he could go, at least, with John's arm around his neck. Isaac met John's eyes as the boys spoke, glancing conspicuously at their seating arrangement before throwing John a wink. He responded with a chuckle and a nod, Isaac reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. 

"Happy for you," he whispered, John replying by knocking their heads together lightly, Isaac laughing along.

They left as soon as they had arrived, pulled away by the call of their friends, Isaac following Simon, the fingers of one hand hooked into the waistband of his jeans, ever in contact. 

John returned his attention to Bobby, the two of them effectively left to their own devices, ignorant of the crowd around them. Bobby reached for him, one palm flat and warm on his cheek, his eyes searching John's for any lingering sadness.

"How was today?"

John softened into him, pressing their lips together, resting his forehead against Bobby's own.

"Great. It went really well. I'm really happy, Bobby."

"I'm so glad," he replied, pulling John tighter against him, "So happy for you, baby."

John let himself be held, feeling the final tipping of whatever scale in his mind had been holding him back. He leaned into Bobby's ear, speaking softly to him.

"What if we went home, Bobby? Is it too early for you? I'm about done."

They had been there about two hours by that point, but John had managed to sluice enough alcohol into his system to leave himself loose and easy in Bobby's arms.

"I go where you go."

"I got something to tell you, when we get back."

Bobby nodded, bringing both arms around John's waist.

"We're close enough to walk back to my place, if you want?" he asked, his eyes never leaving John's.

"Only if you hold my hand the whole way."

John watched Bobby's face split open into the brightest smile he had ever seen grace his features, drawing his lips wide over his teeth, sparkling in his eyes as he nodded.

"Anything you want."

They rose, stumbling through the house hand in hand, John firing off a text to Ororo with a single thumb, his spelling surprisingly coherent despite the odds against.

_ Me and Bobby are heading home _

_ We're gonna walk to his _

_ It's not far _

_ I'll text you when we get there _

Her reply didn't take long coming in, accompanied by a picture of her and Jean together, each giving the camera the finger.

_ Whatever _

_ I hope you both cry _

He and Bobby walked quickly in the dark, John's arms wrapped around one of his, their voices low as they joked back and forth about who they had seen that night, what gossip they had overheard. Eventually, they fell silent, John's head coming to rest on Bobby's shoulder, willing his house to materialize in front of them so they could finally cut to the ending. It was a while still, John fighting his eyes open as they finally turned onto Bobby's street, pausing at his doorway as Bobby fumbled his keys out of his pocket. John stood between him and the door, arms around his neck, pulling him in to meet his waiting mouth. His kiss was eager, tongue ready, Bobby groaning into him, hands splayed against the wood on either side of his head. They ground against each other, John hitching one leg up around Bobby's waist, raising his chin to let him lick at the sensitive spots on his neck. Bobby pulled away, face hot and red, their eyes meeting, John smiling at him, leaning close to whisper against his lips.

"I love you, Bobby."

He felt Bobby tense against him, heard the metallic clatter of his house keys hitting the concrete in front of his front door. He felt Bobby's sudden exhale across his lips, the tension in his grip as it tightened on John's wrist.

"Did you… did you just say what I thought you said?"

"I've loved you for a long time, baby. I'm sorry I left it so long to tell you."

Bobby slumped against him, face in his neck, heaving shuddering breaths as if they might calm him, as if they might quieten his racing heart. 

"Johnny… please."

"I mean it, Bobby. I love you. You're my man. You're my forever."

That was enough to break him. Bobby wailed a sob into John's neck, one hand moving to clutch at his sweater, the other tight enough in his hair to hurt, although it didn't. John worked his arms around him, holding him up, holding him close, fingers in his hair as he tried to bring him back from the edge.

"Tell me you love me too, Bobby. I know you do, I just need to hear it."

"So long, Johnny," he managed to choke out, in between sobs, "I loved you for so long. Been waiting. Been waiting for you. I knew you would."

"Always, Bobby. You were always my man, even if I didn't know it."

"I love you. I love you so much, Johnny, you don't even know."

"Look at me."

Bobby shook his head, burying it further into John's now tear-stained chest. John laughed, head thrown to the sky, full of joy, patting at the back of Bobby's head.

"Please? Just for a second?"

He shook his head again, John able to discern his laughter beneath the sobs. They were playing now, Bobby past the zenith of his crying.

"Not even for your boyfriend? Not even for Johnny?"

He felt Bobby laugh in earnest against him, his head rising slowly to meet John's own red-rimmed eyes. He kissed Bobby's nose, watching his grin even itself out, Bobby swiping at his eyes, rubbing away his tears.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Bobby. I was scared — too scared to tell you how I really felt. But, I'm here now. I'm yours. I've  _ been  _ yours."

"Let's go inside," he said, voice hoarse, John nodding along, crouching to retrieve his keys, brushing his face meaningfully against Bobby's stomach as he came back up again, Bobby's hand coming up beneath the hem of his shirt, hand warm on his lower back as they moved together through his darkened house.

"You go up," he said, nodding at the stairs, "I'll get us some water."

John nodded, their fingers trailing off together slowly as they separated, John beginning the familiar climb up to Bobby's room. He was reminded vaguely of his first night there, almost a year ago by that point — his nervous approach up Bobby's street, instantly quelled by his warm enthusiasm as he had stood waiting for him, as he had welcomed him into his arms and his bedroom. He wondered if Bobby knew then that they'd see each other again, or if that night had just been a fluke in his mind, a particularly nice evening among a host of others. He sighed as he came to Bobby's room, the promise of the preternaturally soft mattress tantalizingly close. He contemplated leaving his clothes on, so Bobby could indulge himself by taking them off. Shrugging, he figured there was plenty of time for them to do that in future, and that the call of the rumpled covers was more inviting. As he fished himself out of his jeans, Bobby returned, setting two flasks on his bedside table, already condensing in the warm air of the room. 

Bobby stood over him, cupping his face in his palms, his wet eyes searching John's face for signs that their night was part of some elaborate joke, that the rug was about to be pulled out from beneath him at any moment. John chuckled at his expression, leaning forwards to kiss his stomach, one hand pushing up the hem of his shirt as the other deposited his jeans on the floor next to the rest of his clothes. His lips were warm against the skin of Bobby's hips, hands moving to undo his own jeans, Bobby halting him with a grip on his shoulder.

"I don't wanna fool around tonight, if that's okay."

"Me either, I just wanna kiss you. Wherever I can."

He laughed, leaving his hand where it was, thumb stroking in the divot of John's collarbone, the sound graduating into a light moan as John's thumbs pressed into his hips as they meandered down his legs, guiding Bobby's prodigious thighs out of the too-snug fabric. He stepped out of them, tossing his shirt, pushing John down onto the bed, laying himself on top, their bodies warm against one another, John's hand in his hair, his other pressed flat against his heart. 

"You're so soft, Bobby."

"Your hands feel incredible, Johnny."

"Tell me you love me again."

"Oh so now you wanna hear it, huh?"

It was a joke, but John felt guilt rush up to colour his face regardless. Bobby caught his eye, shaking his head.

"No no, none of that. I'm not sore that you took your time with me, Johnny. You had a lot to work through with your family stuff. I would have given you as much as you needed."

"I made the right decision that night that I replied to you."

Their voices were low, the covers pulled up just up to their waists, Bobby's arm loosely draped across John's ribs and up his back. John explored his features with both hands, gentle fingers running across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and down his jaw as if committing him to memory.

"I remember being so excited when you pulled up to my house, because you were just as hot as your pictures."

"I remember not believing you when you said you thought I was hot."

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are."

"I love you, John."

"I love you too."

Bobby's grin flashed again, sending a shiver up and down John's spine.

"So I heard you say something about forever, earlier on. You mean that?"

John shifted in his arms, cuddling closer, their heads level on a shared pillow.

"Look, you know I don't believe in forever. Nothing is really forever, unless you're like, a rock or something," he explained, pausing as Bobby laughed, "But I'll give you as much time as I have, for as long as you'll have me."

"I guess that works."

They were quiet for a moment, John scratching idly at his stomach.

"You're supposed to say something nice back."

"What's there to say, John? You already know I'm devoted to you."

"When did you know you were in love with me?" he asked, "I'm trying to figure out how long I kept you on the leash for."

"The day you called me to come get you, after your Dad called that one time."

John sighed — that had been quite a while ago.

"Sitting with you in the car, and hearing you tell me everything that had happened, knowing that I was the one you came to — that was it, for me. I knew. I knew I needed to be by your side after that."

"And so, the stuff with Simon, you were…"

"Yeah, I was jealous. I can say that now. I own up to that. I should have just told you what was up, instead of sitting and stewing in it like I did. That wasn't fair, and it wasn't fair to him either."

"I remember talking with him, and he asked me why I didn't date, and I just told him I didn't like it, and he said he thought I didn't like being vulnerable."

"He read your ass, is what you mean."

John laughed, slapping the side of Bobby's head gently.

"Stop, I'm trying to be sincere."

"Sorry, sorry. Go on."

"It's nothing, it's just, he was right. And so, with everything with my Dad, I guess I just got more open to the idea of letting myself not be so wound up all the time. It felt right.  _ You _ feel right. Everything feels right, now."

"And, I suppose," Bobby went on, the two of them shifting together into their usual sleeping position — Bobby on his back, John curled into his side, "It's not like we've missed out on anything. We've been close this whole time."

"We've been boyfriends this whole time, Bobby. I've just been trying to act like we're not because admitting it was harder than just letting you hold me and not talking about it."

"Everyone's been watching me like I'm a wounded animal lately," Bobby said, chuckling to himself. "Watching me follow you around like a lost kid. Ororo and Jean both told me to just bite the bullet and say it to you. Simon knew, though — he understood you, and what you needed."

"Frances has been harassing me to tell you for weeks. She didn't think it was fair to you, and I knew she was right."

"Well, it's all done now! We can tell people, not that anyone will be surprised."

"If you look on my page, my post should already be there."

Bobby's brow furrowed, glancing at John, who shrugged, nodding at his phone where it sat. Bobby swiped it into his hand, still visibly confused, and scrolled to John's page, eyes widening.

"How did you-"

"I scheduled it earlier today."

It was a picture of the two of them, John on Bobby's back, legs around his waist, arms around his neck, both of their smiles wide to the camera. It had been a bright day, sunlight still tumbling down around them through the bare trees, the two of them bundled in sweaters and hats, faces flushed red from the cold, and each other. The six of them had gone to the park, their last gathering before Christmas. They had hoped for snow — Simon and Isaac practically vibrating at the idea of pelting the other four with snowballs — but it had been clear. It had been nice, regardless, a couple of hours spent together before retreating to the bubbles of their separate families. It was a picture John had been fond of for some time, never finding the right moment to post it, until then. 

Underneath it was another of John's austere captions, bold in its simplicity.

_ My forever. _

John watched Bobby's face as he took it in, watched a tear stroll lazily down his cheek, swiped away by John's thumb. 

"You like to pretend you're this big cold-hearted asshole who doesn't give a shit about anything, but you're literally the sweetest guy I've ever met in my entire life."

John flushed against him, his face hot in the crook of Bobby's neck.

"Only for you," he mumbled.

"Only for me."

"Are you good to sleep?" John asked, shucking the covers up over his shoulder.

"Ready when you are."

"Okay, one last time before we go — I love you Bobby."

"G'night, Johnny, I love you too."

Bobby felt John's smile widen, the two of them shifting briefly under the covers, settling their bodies together, drifting away in time.


	13. Official

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang go upstate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, this is the penultimate chapter!

M arch, Senior Year

Weeks passed with Bobby and John felt himself uncoil into a vague sense of peace he was largely unfamiliar with. Nothing was different — their schedules already as entwined as their bodies, many nights out of the week already spent in one bed or another. Rather, there was a new intensity to every touch, every fleeting glance over a friend's shoulder, every kiss stolen unexpectedly. John felt his stomach lurch every time Bobby passed through his field of vision, felt a throbbing somewhere deep inside of him — past his heart, further into his core — every time he appeared in the wide berth of his mind's eye. Bobby had relaxed as well, his body settling — malleable, pliable, almost-liquid where it draped itself around and across John's. Unbounded by their admission, declarations of love — words, names, interwoven fingers tucked away into someone's pocket in a public place — flowed freely between them, no longer held back.

It was Bobby who pushed him to tell the others about his family history, and its more recent developments.

"I just think it would be the right thing to do," he had said, tucking John into his chest before he could protest, holding him still with a hand flat on the top of his head, "You don't have to — I just know you feel guilty for not telling them. That's only gonna get worse the longer you leave it."

Bobby had expected him to argue, to push and rankle and sulk. He didn't. He had nodded, sighing softly, rippling gooseflesh across one of Bobby's arms.

"You're right. I'll do it before we all go upstate. Give everyone some time to process it."

Bobby had smiled down at him, distracting him from his unease with his ever-eager mouth and gentle, warm hands digging into his sides.

Unfortunately, circumstances had scattered everyone's schedules, making wrangling their group together in one location an impossibility right up until the night before their trip. It was movie night, which they decided to press on with, calling it early if only to spare their drivers — John and Simon — their sanity the next day. They had agreed that Jean would stay with John — her house in the complete opposite direction from where they would be driving — leaving him with only the responsibility of picking up Bobby and Ororo. Simon and Isaac were travelling together in the former's car, Isaac's dog tagging along at Simon's puppy-eyed insistence.

Their last-minute logistic planning had taken up the first half-hour of movie night, with everyone eventually settling in, awaiting John to hit play on the remote. His fingers hovered an inch above it, as he contemplated putting his confession off further, Bobby's encouraging hand splayed wide across his lower back. He had cleared his throat, feeling the pressure mount behind his lungs, as if his words were trapped there, expanding as they struggled in vain to escape of their own accord. Jean had watched him, her face expectant, shifting to worry as the moment elongated. Simon's face was closed off, Bobby's expression and body language keying him in that something important was coming. Isaac had been focused on his phone, scrolling lazily, his face left shifting between John's and Simon's as the sobriety of the room's atmosphere reached him. Ororo was uncomfortable, plainly so, curled in on herself, sitting on her ankles, thumbnail in between her teeth.

John took one more look over his shoulder at Bobby, who nodded, ducking his chin to kiss his shoulder. He took a deep breath, and began.

"Yeah, uhh… sorry for interrupting things, but I have something I gotta get off my chest…"

It didn't take him long to explain the story — cutting out the superfluous details of his confrontation with the boy at school which led to his expulsion, or his previous misconception of his father's feelings. That left him with the bare minimum — his mother was gone; his father had been sick, and so had left him with Frances; now they were on the mend. His eyes flickered between their faces as he spoke, resisting the urge to stare at the floor as if he might sink into it. Isaac had teared up — John watched his hand reach frantically for Simon's, watched their fingers clench around each other, Simon's thumb raking across his knuckles, lips at his temple, murmuring to him softly. Jean's face was stoic, her eyes locked on John's face, hand at her mouth. Ororo lost it as soon as John mentioned his mother's death, her tears spilling fast and hot over her face, Jean's other hand reassuring on her knee.

"Ororo, please, it's okay!" he said, still teary-eyed, as he finished, reaching for her hand, "I'm good now! Things are good, I'm happy, I promise!"

She nodded, sniffling, squeezing gulping air to calm herself, slowly becoming the center of attention as the rest of them began to crack up at her theatrics. 

There was a moment of silence, the six of them collecting themselves, allowing normalcy to return, before John relented and let the movie play on. He sank into Bobby, both hands sitting atop Bobby's across his stomach, leaning his head back to rest against his shoulder, slumping into him with a huffed sigh. 

"Proud of you," he said quietly, one light press of his lips behind John's ear.

The movie passed largely without comment, the group's mood settling into its usual irreverence, yelling at the characters as they plunged headlong into various creatively fatal scenarios, Bobby and Simon cringing at the gore. John was conscious of Jean, close as she was to him on the couch to his left. She was quiet, her body tense, her eyes unfocused where they sat locked onto the screen. He swallowed, guilt sloshing up the back of his throat, nudging her with his toe. She turned to him, head tilting slowly where it rested on her hand, her eyes watching him lazily, something deeper sparkling just behind. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding at her, before reopening them. She nodded back, and turned once again to the TV, neither of them saying anything. They didn't need to. In the years of their friendship, they had established that as a silent phrase —  _ We'll talk later  _ — to be employed whenever necessary. 

The night ended when Ororo's father arrived to pick her up, his presence prompting Simon and Isaac to unfold themselves from where they were tangled on the couch — Simon stretching tall, arms splayed high and wide, Isaac tucked into his back, arms around his stomach. Isaac threw an arm around John's shoulders as he passed, pulling him in close.

"You and me went through the same shit, man. You ever need someone to talk to about it, I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Isaac. Now go on, before he gets jealous."

They slunk out together, following the sound of Ororo's car as it thrummed down the street. Bobby stood, John rising with him, walking him to the door.

"I'm happy for you — that you got to tell everyone. I hope you feel a little better, even if it's not right now."

John wound his arms around Bobby's back, grinning as Bobby did the same, bringing their foreheads together.

"I'll be fine. Thanks for being here."

They kissed, softly, fondly, swaying gently from side to side. Bobby was warm, leeching heat into John's body where they were joined — enough for him to sink, for his mind to drift into the hazy fog of proximity, willing him to hold their moment forever. Yet, he was aware of Jean, of her expectant presence, and pulled away, patting Bobby on the back.

"We can take that back up tomorrow, alright?"

He pouted, but relented, standing tall and stepping over the threshold into the night.

"I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well, baby. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied, the two of them breaking out into only minorly embarrassed smiles, John shutting the door. As he turned, he met Jean's face as she stood in the alcove between the living room and the stairs, her head leaning against the wood, her arms folded loosely.

"Hi," he said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Hi."

"I was gonna smoke, do you wanna come with and we can talk?"

She nodded, following him out to the back porch in silence, the two of them settling on the steps leading down to their meagre back yard. John stood, leaning against a post, his face briefly illuminated in the orange flash of his lighter. Jean watched him as he inhaled, noting the miniscule tendrils of smoke that creeped out of his nostrils before his exhale. 

"You look good," she began, head tilted to one side where she sat below him on a step, looking up towards him, "I guess your stuff with Bobby kinda took a load off of you, huh?"

He nodded.

"It did. And I do feel good, about everything, including my family stuff. I didn't wanna bring everyone down right before we all went away together, but I needed to get it out."

"Yeah," she said, eyes shifting to the dirt under her shoes, the blades of grass worn down under too many footsteps.

"So," he ventured, breaking the silence, "Why the face, tonight?"

She sighed, shrugging.

"It's dumb. It's selfish. I feel bad even thinking about it, never mind saying it out loud."

"I think I already know what it is, so maybe just come out with it."

"Bobby knew, right? Before you told us all? You went to him first."

John nodded — he had been correct in his assumption of her feelings.

"Yeah, he did. For a long time, actually. There was a thing, back in the Fall, and I went to him."

"What happened?" 

"Dad called. I hadn't heard from him in three years almost, and it sent me to a bad place. I sat with Bobby in his car and he held me and listened. A few weeks ago, he told me that was the night he knew he loved me."

Jean swallowed, blinking back tears.

"Right. I'm sorry that that happened, but I guess it worked out, seeing as it got you and Bobby together."

"But you're wondering why I didn't come to you," he replied, watching her stiffen, "You feel some kind of way because you wonder why I couldn't tell you sooner — you  _ and  _ Ororo."

She nodded.

"I'm sorry. Like I said, it's selfish. It's not what I should be thinking about when you tell me something like this."

"But you can't help but feel left out."

"Yeah."

John lowered himself next to her, their knees just barely brushing, tossing his cigarette into the planter he and Frances used as an ashtray. Jean ran her hands flat across her face and up through her hair, smoothing it down around her shoulders, shivering against the cold.

"It wasn't that I was intentionally leaving you two out of the loop. Truth be told, I had no intentions of anyone ever knowing about that stuff. I was prepared to go the rest of my life without ever seeing Dad again. That day with Bobby was a fluke, a total abnormality. I needed someone to be there for me."

"I could have been there for you," she replied, trembling weakly.

"I know. And you would have, too, if I asked. It was just him that I chose. I don't know if you noticed but I'm a little bit obsessed with him."

She snorted a laugh, the sound breaking through the miasma of her emotion, John chuckling beside her. She leaned into him, head on his shoulder, swiping at her nose.

"Ororo and I had sex, a while back — after David's party."

John tried not to let his surprise show, nodding along.

"I guess Bobby was right."

"What do you mean?"

"He knew something went down between you two — he has a knack for this kinda thing, he just takes one look and knows if someone has had sex. And then obviously, he knew you broke it off with Scott."

"Yeah, we… she took me home after the party, after everything, and then we talked, and then we kissed, and so on."

"So, is this your way of coming out to me?"

"I'm a lesbian, yeah. I think. Something, anyway."

"That's cool. I'm glad you were able to come to terms with that before college, because at least then you'll have some kinda freedom to explore it without your Dad looming over you."

"I already told him, actually. He's the only person other than you and Ororo who knows."

John raised his eyebrows, turning to meet her nodding head.

"And how did that go?"

"Would you believe he was relieved?" she said, laughing at the absurdity of it, "He told me, he said, 'That's a load off of my mind, Jeanie!' I asked him what he meant and he told me he was just glad I wasn't gonna be messing around with boys anymore!"

"He is so weird."

"Psycho. He needs help."

They were quiet then, John working an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to you about my family stuff. I didn't want you to feel left out. All I really wanted was to cuddle Bobby in the back of his car."

She grinned.

"I'm sorry I left it this long to come out to you. As if you would turn around and think it's gross!"

"Oh no, I do, I'm just waiting until it's appropriate to kick you out."

They gathered themselves against the cold, heading up to John's room, settling under the covers together, the picture of an old married couple. John sat on his phone, opening his text thread from Simon, chuckling as he tilted the screen towards Jean so she could see.

_ You made my stupid boyfriend cry with your story _

_ I'm kidding _

_ Well, he did cry, but I'm not mad about it _

_ Hope you're okay, text him if you need him _

_ Don't text me, I'm no help _

Jean laughed, John shaking his head as he typed out a response.

"At least he's honest," she said.

John slid down onto his back, arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. Jean joined him, the two of them side by side, silence spilling out into the air between them, awaiting one of them to break it.

"Are you nervous about college?" John asked. It had been a steadily growing topic among the six of them, as the end of high school approached, as their applications began to be finalized while September loomed ominously over them.

"I'm not. Not really. I have a pretty good idea of where I'm going, and what I need to get in. Are you?"

"I am," he shrugged, "Not about getting in — a monkey with a typewriter could get into the major I'm applying for-"

"And I'm sure they'd love its insights on Shakespeare."

"I'm sure they would."

"So what is it?"

John was quiet, unwilling to give voice to the acidic pit in his stomach which had been eating at him.

"I'm worried about what happens with me and Bobby once we go to different colleges."

Jean reached for him, her hand gripping his. He returned it with the gentle pulse of his own digits, still blinking at the unchanging panels of his ceiling.

"John, I don't think you have to worry about him. Of all people."

"I know that. And that's the awful part. I  _ know _ Bobby would never cheat, or get tired, or anything. But there's still the voice — the little demon in the back of your mind — telling you it  _ could  _ happen. And that fear is enough to make me sick, Jeanie. I don't know if I'm strong enough for him, to do it, for four whole years."

He felt her turn over onto her side towards him, refusing to meet her gaze.

"You know, when I said I felt weird about you not opening up to me, I didn't mean it as an invitation."

"Sorry."

"I'm kidding. You're actually asking the right person, seeing as I'm supposed to be going to college for psychotherapy. Might as well get the practice in now!"

He forced a smile he didn't feel, just to move along. Jean, ever observant, didn't buy it.

"Look. The fact that you've identified these feelings as something separate is a good step in and of itself. You know they're not real, so you can talk yourself out of them. Or at least, that's the idea — easier said than done."

"Right," he nodded, swallowing, finally dragging his head to one side to look at her, to meet her sympathetic smile.

"Bobby loves you. Talk to him. Explain this to him, same way you explained it to me. If I know him, he'll be there for you like he always is."

"I shouldn't have to ask him," he said, the hand behind his head clenching into a fist, "He's already done so much for me, and all I keep doing is asking for more."

"Okay, and if he was going through something, would you be there for him?"

"Of course."

"So what's the issue? Just because he hasn't needed you for that yet doesn't mean he won't ever. And besides, relationships aren't just a series of transactions — do you know what I mean? You don't  _ owe _ him, he's your boyfriend!"

John huffed, convinced, but frustrated.

"I know you're right, but that doesn't stop me feeling like I'm dragging him down."

"That's why you have to hear him say it. Talk to him, I promise you it'll be fine."

His body relaxed, seemingly giving up on its attempt to destroy itself by tensile exertion alone, the arm behind him moving down around Jean's shoulder, pulling her into him.

"Thanks, Jean. I don't mean to be such a sad sack but it comes with the territory."

She chuckled, moving into him, chin on his shoulder. Her breath tickled his ear when he spoke, sending his mind flashing backwards to that same sensation repeated with Bobby.

"You're welcome. I'm here for you whenever you need."

They stayed quiet after that, sleep rushing in and over them, leaving their bodies still entwined where they lay.

* * *

They had less than an hour to go before they reached the town when Isaac texted Bobby.

He was in the passenger seat, one hand firmly on John's thigh, the warm pressure of it enough to stave off the itch in his eyes brought on by the endless flow of asphalt before them through the windshield. They had been driving for three hours, and hunger and restlessness were beginning to settle in amongst them.

_ We're starving _

_ We were gonna pull over at the next exit to grab some food _

Bobby read the texts aloud in the car, by way of gauging responses, which were unanimously in favour.

And so they had found themselves in the parking lot of a rest stop, stuffing greasy food into themselves, splayed variously between the two cars. John sat in the driver's seat, facing Simon's car, Isaac mirroring him from the passenger seat. Jean and Ororo sat on the ground in the shade of the car, sharing a box of fries. Simon stood, using the roof of his car as a table, Bobby doing the same against the hood of John's. Among them sat Isaac's bulldog — Mustard — his squat body perched in between Isaac's spread legs, one paw on his knee, eyes fixed on his food, following it as his hand brought it from his bag to his mouth. He met the dog's eyes as he finished, shaking his head.

"Uh uh, not me. You know I'm not the one."

Mustard only whined, his face sagging further into an expression of pure pleading. Simon came to his rescue, whistling to him, drawing the dog's attention immediately to him, plodding over on stubby legs to where Simon crouched on one knee, one of the three burgers he had bought for himself in his hands.

"Simon," Isaac said, his voice a warning, "You know he's not supposed to eat those."

"Relax, I'm just giving him the meat. He'll be fine. Won't you, baby boy?" he replied, addressing Mustard at the end, waggling the sad, sagging patty in his face, letting him grab it, grinning as he wolfed it down. Mustard flopped on his belly after, contented, Simon scratching at his ears as he settled, chewing on one of his laces absentmindedly.

* * *

They arrived at their Airbnb in the mid-afternoon, the sun still hanging on, slanting searing light right through the windshield, leaving John — and indeed Simon, elsewhere on the same road — squinting against it, desperate to park and relieve himself of the burden of driving. His head buzzed, a thumping pain throbbing somewhere behind his left eye. He had removed Bobby's hand from his thigh, the pressure no longer a comfort, reduced to merely another sensation plaguing his overstimulated brain. Bobby had grimaced at him, but understood, smiling weakly.

The main living area was broad and spacious, filled with light. There were three couches, one larger than the rest, a futon which would likely be the object of discussion between the six of them. John could feel Bobby behind him, pressed close as always, both hands occupied by his and John's bags — his silent concession to John's frustration. Mustard had been smuggled in, snoring — deep and apneic — from within Isaac's hoodie. Simon and John beelined for the couch, splaying themselves wide, hands over their eyes, finally able to rest from the endless assault of the unchanging roads. Bobby stood at the couch's back, his fingers toying with John's hair. John brought his fingers up to mesh with Bobby's, squeezing once, a silent apology for his earlier mood.

They settled themselves in, bags dropped to the floor, the inevitable stand-off over who got what rooms beginning to crest over. There were two proper bedrooms available, which meant that one of the pairs would be relegated to the futon, and all the uncomfortable night's sleep and endless shifting and whining of springs that it would entail.

"Should we draw straws?" Ororo asked, glancing around as if any of them might have a set of straws from which to draw.

"We'll take it," John said suddenly, Bobby nodding beside him.

All eyes turned to them, incredulous.

"Are you sure?" Jean asked, "You don't wanna fight about it? Maybe drag this out 'til dinnertime?"

"We're good, we can just take it," Bobby said with a shrug. The other four faltered, glancing awkwardly between them, bereft of their argument.

"Okay, well, I guess we gotta figure out what to do now, while it's still light out," Ororo said, dragging her and Jean's bags towards one of the bedroom doors, kicking them inside.

"There's a vintage store I wanna go to," Jean offered, "I saw it on Google while we were in the car."

Isaac nodded, fishing Mustard out of his hoodie, placing him gently in Simon's lap, where he nuzzled his head in further, sighing in the way dogs do whilst in the depths of their dreams.

"I saw that place too, I wanna go so bad."

"What do you want in a vintage place?" Simon asked, head tilted over the back of the couch.

"Some of us like to wear more than their matching UnderArmor set every single day."

"Works for me."

"It does, unfortunately," Isaac replied, giving in to scratch at Simon's chin.

John interrupted their conversation with a barely stifled yawn, which had the knock on effect of setting Simon off, whose face stretched long and wide.

"I think I'm gonna pass, guys, I need a nap," John said, shaking his head. 

"Yeah, I'm a mess," Simon agreed, scooping Mustard into the crook of his arm as he stood, his free hand scratching under his shirt, "I'm gonna sleep."

Isaac nodded, pulling himself into Simon, kissing at his cheek.

"You want me to take Mustard with me for the walk?"

Simon shook his head.

"No, my lil' baby boy is gonna come sleep with his daddy."

Isaac frowned, lower lip jutting out. When he spoke it was a whisper, barely audible as he and Simon ducked into their assigned room.

"I thought I was your baby boy?"

"I can have a couple of you, can't I?"

Isaac scoffed, patting Simon's chest, watching him lay Mustard gently down into the covers — the dog quickly curling himself into the soft warmth, his muzzle snuffling in his sleep. Simon stripped to his underwear, Isaac's eyes following each strip of fabric as it passed over his skin, gathering them up and tossing them over their bags. He held Simon where they stood, kissing his chest, hands woven at the small of his back.

"You sure you don't want me to stay?"

"You can if you want, but I'm not gonna keep you from going and having fun."

"Alright," he nodded, "We'll bring dinner back. What do you want?"

"Fried chicken. I'm not even kidding, I've been craving it all week."

"Babe," Isaac whined, glancing at the door, "Not in front of the white folks."

"It's fine. They can cope. I want it."

"Whatever you want," Isaac replied, one final kiss as they parted, Simon sliding under the covers, pulling Mustard into the wide berth of his arms.

Isaac emerged back into the living room — Ororo and Jean changed into fresh pants, the ones they had worn in the car discarded — watching Bobby unfold the futon for John, who stood over him, too tired to contribute anything more than his presence. With the bed laid out, John collapsed, Bobby sitting by him, leaning down to speak.

"What do you want me to bring you back to eat?"

"Whatever you're having," he mumbled, already well into sleep, Bobby nodding along.

"Okay baby. I'll see you later."

He left him with a kiss to his forehead, the four of them heading out into the late afternoon.

* * *

They found the vintage store to be incredibly well-stocked, in the way that small-town ones often were.

Jean had installed herself by the trousers, searching for her namesake, thumbing through seemingly endless pairs, seeking the ones which would fit her exactly as she desired. Ororo stood by her, absentmindedly flicking through a selection of old sportswear tops that had been cropped — the prices raised in comparison to their intact counterparts on a lower rack.

"What exactly are you looking for?" she asked, Jean answering her without turning her head, intent in her search.

"I want them to be high waisted, and then cropped at the ankles, and then they have to be the right shade of blue."

Ororo blinked, all of Jean's description coming to her in a mad rush of breath.

"Do you want help?"

"It's okay, I'll know it when I see it."

Ororo chuckled, returning to her racks with a grin.

Across the store, Bobby stood by Isaac, watching him sift through a pile of old football sweatshirts, thumbing across their aged softness, seeking one that was actually in his size.

"See, they all say XL, but then I put them on, and it feels like an XS on my big ass."

"You wear them on your ass?" Bobby asked, shuffling old t-shirts around on their racks, only marginally interested in them.

"No, idiot. It was a-"

"I know, Isaac, I was making a joke back," he said, rolling his eyes. Simon snorted, shrugging back to his near-fruitless search.

"Hard to tell, with you."

"So I've been told."

They were quiet then as Isaac honed in on something, unfurling some garment from the bottom of the pile, holding it in front of himself in the mirror. It bore the logo of a football team Bobby was vaguely familiar with — the animal mascot of another state's team glaring at him from the faded center of the logo.

"You like this?"

Bobby shrugged.

"You can't go wrong with a sweatshirt, can you?"

Isaac frowned at it, nodding and tucking it over his arm. He moved to where Bobby stood, leaning against the wall, inspecting his choices. In his hands, Bobby was toying with a black shirt, a band tee from a concert decades before, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Why you look like you're doin' a math final?"

"Very funny. I'm trying to remember if Johnny listens to these guys or not."

"Johnny?" Isaac asked, eyebrow raised, a smile playing at his lips.

Bobby exhaled as if punched, suddenly aware of what he had let slip, hiding his face among the shirts on the rack.

"Please don't tell anyone else I call him that."

"I won't. I've got some names for Simon that I don't need any of y'all hearing."

He and Bobby grinned together, descending into juvenile giggles at their insinuations. Bobby checked over his shoulder, leaning in to whisper to Isaac.

"So, what do you call him?"

Isaac tilted his head, features pulled into a silent declaration —  _ Tell no one or you're dead _ — before he spoke, voice barely audible over the store's playlist of soft indie rock.

"I may have carelessly thrown around the word 'Daddy', once or twice — in the midst of things. Which is weird," he added, watching Bobby's eyes widen in shock, "Because I'm older than him by a couple of months."

"You really call him that?"

"It was a heat of the moment thing. Come on! You know how it is, you're a bottom too!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know! Sometimes they ask whose is it and you just… gotta tell them."

"Isaac, I'm white as you can be — I've never been asked whose it is."

Simon threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Whatever. Tell anyone and I'll slash your tires."

"I won't. Also," he went on, refusing to let Isaac's comment slide, "What do you mean, I'm a bottom  _ too _ ?"

Isaac fixed him with a gaze brimming with derision, his head tilted once again.

"Bobby. Please. You don't want to go down this road baby, I'll make you cry."

They were interrupted by the reappearance of the girls — Jean's arms draped in denim, Ororo swinging two of the crop tops she had been eyeing on their hangers. 

"What are you two sissies giggling about?" Ororo asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Nothing. Also, that's homophobic."

"Cry more. Are we good to go?"

Isaac nodded, brandishing his pull. Bobby grabbed both of the shirts he had picked out, intending them for John, with the backup of using them as gym shirts if he didn't like them. They paid — Jean pointedly ignoring the cashier as she threw a smile her way, looking up at her through long eyelashes as she swiped her card. Ororo watched along, to the point that the poor girl became discouraged, afraid she might be stepping on Ororo's toes. They emerged out into the street, getting their bearings as they glanced around. It was growing late, and they were all getting hungry, their gas station lunch leaving much to be desired. Isaac and Ororo both spotted a liquor store, glancing between them, nodding silently.

"You got ID, right?" she asked him, waiting for him to pull it out — a well made fake courtesy of one of his uncles.

"Oh are you guys going now?" Jean asked, gesturing for Ororo's tiny bag, stuffing it into her own.

"We can go get all our food then, if you need?"

Isaac nodded, handing his own bag to Bobby, he and Ororo gathering their cash.

"Simon asked me to get him fried chicken, but I don't think there's anywhere good nearby, so maybe just get pizza, if that's what you guys are doing."

Ororo glanced at him, their eyes meeting.

"In front of the white people?" she asked, wary.

"That's what I said. You know he doesn't listen."

They shook their heads, leaving Bobby and Jean rolling their eyes.

The liquor store didn't present itself as a problem — staffed by a bored twenty-something more interested by her phone than whether or not the two of them belonged in the store. They grabbed beers, three six packs for the boys to split between the four of them, Ororo and Jean preferring a bottle of wine between them.

"Beer's all bloaty, I feel like a blimp after."

Isaac rolled his eyes, carting the beers under his arm like a football, looking Ororo up and down.

"Would you ever… bitch you're built like a telephone pole with two watermelons glued to the front of it."

"Don't forget the pumpkin strapped to the back," she added, knocking into him with it as she passed, for extra effect.

They encountered no resistance at the counter, the girl barely dragging her eyes from the face on Ororo's card to the one in front of her, eventually nodding and tossing it to the counter between them as she prepared to bag their stuff. She didn't even bother to ask Isaac, who had affixed her with his best impression of a bored boyfriend escorting his girlfriend somewhere he didn't want to be. They met up with the others outside the pizza place, Bobby leaden under the burden of three large pizzas — one each for Simon and Isaac, the last split between he and John — while Jean had her and Ororo's personals tucked under one arm. 

The apartment was full of light when they came back — all of the assorted lamps having been switched on against the swift fall of night which had gone barely noticed by the group. John turned as they entered from where he stood in the kitchen space, Mustard perched on the island to his right. The dog's head wobbled uncertainly on his stubby neck as he leaned over to inspect the intruders, his pudgy body wiggling with anticipation as Isaac approached him. In a surprising display of athleticism for a dog of his size, Mustard leaped from the counter into Isaac's waiting arms, front paws on his shoulders, head ducked beneath his chin.

"Did you miss me little man? Huh? You want dinner?"

He was answered by an exicted bark, Mustard's nails clacking against the floor as he let him down, retrieving the half-bag of dog food he had brought for him. With Mustard settled, the gentle crunch of his food echoing through the apartment, Simon reappeared, emerging from one of the bathrooms in his shorts, still towelling off his upper body. He startled as he noticed all eyes on him, suddenly and unexpectedly exposed.

"You never looked at my text," he said to Isaac, frowning as he turned into their bedroom.

Isaac, perplexed, retrieved his phone from his pocket, opening up his messages. His eyes widened at the picture, an exasperated laugh forcing its way out of his throat. Bobby grinned at him as the others looked on, confused.

"I know that face. Can I see?"

"Bobby!" John said, gesturing wide, "What the hell?"

"I'm the only one out of the four of us who hasn't seen it!"

"And you never will," Isaac replied, pocketing his phone, handing Bobby his bag as he followed after Simon. 

Bobby huffed a sigh, moving around the island to John, passing the shirts to him.

"Got these for you. If you don't like them it's all good, they fit me too, I can use them for the gym."

"Oh, hey, you didn't have to, thanks Bobby," he replied, melting into him, knocking their heads together gently. He unfurled them, inspecting the logos, chuckling, "I don't listen to either of these."

"Oh," he said, face reddening, "I wasn't sure…"

"No, no it's perfect, I like wearing ones I don't listen to, because their fans always ask me if I know their songs and I just pretend like I'm a poser."

"You're psycho."

John shrugged, allowing Bobby to hold him, face stuffed into the crook of his neck.

* * *

The night passed easily — Simon and Isaac plowing through their beers as if they might be confiscated at any moment, ending up tangled in one another, lips locked as though they were the only two people in the room. They splayed out lengthways along their couch — one of many in the surprisingly fully furnished apartment — Mustard asleep across their twined ankles, the rise and fall of his stomach undisturbed by their shifting. Jean sat sprawled against the arm of the loveseat she occupied, hair dangling off to one side, Ororo's fingers drifting through it on occasion, distracted. John was in Bobby's lap, their usual configuration maintaining, his index finger toying with the chain around Bobby's neck, his eyes dragging across his features, Bobby content to let himself be caressed. 

Isaac disentangled himself with a laugh from Simon, batting at his head as he attempted to maneuver it away from biting at his neck, shifting his body around to sit, his back flat against Simon's stomach, lungs heaving.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, shaking his head as he scrubbed a hand down his face, Simon laughing from somewhere above his hip. He looked towards John, catching his eye, something clicking behind his expression.

"You want a smoke?" John asked, already familiar with the particular gaze of longing that accompanied most of his drunken experiences.

Isaac nodded, sheepish and embarrassed, rising as John heaved himself out of Bobby's arms. Simon followed him up — Mustard rolling, still sleeping, onto his back — stretching tall, his face contorted in a wide yawn, scratching at the back of Isaac's head.

"I'm gonna head to sleep, baby — that drive took a lot outta me and these beers didn't help."

Isaac frowned, but nodded, leaving him with a kiss. John eyed Isaac from the door to their balcony, watching him watching Simon's back, worrying his nail between his teeth. He followed after John, the two of them squeezing into the pair of rickety metal chairs, bundled against the cold as John struggled to light the end of his cigarette. He succeeded eventually — after much fidgeting and fumbling — the warm light blooming between his hands. He lit Isaac's with the end of his own, passing it to him, the two of them quiet as they took their first pulls. Isaac leaned back in his chair as he held the smoke in for a moment, lurching suddenly forwards as he felt the chair creak beneath him. John watched him amusedly, one eye on the room where the others remained. As time passed — as they lit up another pair of smokes between them — Jean drifted off into her and Ororo's shared room, Ororo following her not long after, her arms draped around Bobby's shoulders in a hug. At that, Bobby began the process of unfurling the futon, Mustard watching him from the other couch with one eye open all the while. As he settled beneath the covers — throwing a brief wave to John and Isaac through the glass — Mustard made his way over, stomping across the bed to settle in Bobby's arms.

"Look, look!" John said, nudging Isaac, the two of them watching Mustard's progress from the couch to the floor, to Bobby's side.

"Traitor. He goes where it's warm. That's what I keep telling Simon."

John hummed along, watching Isaac's face all the while.

"So uh… something going on between you two tonight?"

Isaac's face twitched, his hand moving to flick ash down the side of the balcony, watching it float down to the street below.

"He doesn't like when I smoke. I don't do it all that often, but he's always kinda weird about it."

"So you think he stalked off to bed because he was pissed off?"

Isaac shrugged.

"Maybe. I dunno."

"I don't think he was pissed at you, Isaac."

He coughed an exhale, shifting in his seat as he ran a hand down the back of his head and neck in exasperation at himself.

"We just don't fight, ever, and it makes me feel like he's holding it all back, and it's gonna explode some day and that's gonna be it."

John exhaled a plume of grey-blue smoke, scratching at the back of his head.

"I know the feeling."

"I just love him a lot and I don't want it to go away."

Isaac sat with his shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, staring down at the empty street below them. 

"We're way too young to be this heavy into our boyfriends."

That was enough to draw Isaac back, his laughter hastily stifled lest they receive a noise complaint, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray, watching the final line of smoke trail off into nothing.

"You got that right," he replied, standing, collecting himself before heading back through the door. John watched him pass Bobby, their hands meeting briefly before Isaac slipped into the bathroom — presumably to brush away the lingering taste of tobacco. John waved to Bobby, splaying his fingers wide to indicate five more minutes. Bobby waved back, mirroring his gesture, making it plain that he hadn't understood. John rolled his eyes as Bobby's attention returned to scratching Mustard's ears, pulling out his phone to type a message to Simon.

_ Are you asleep? _

His response came immediately.

_ No _

_ Why _

_ Your boyfriend thinks you're pissed at him _

_ So be nice when he comes in _

_ Why does he think that _

_ Because he's in love with you _

Simon sent him a final message, an emoji rolling its eyes, John chuckling at it as he finished the end of his smoke, packing himself up and returning to Bobby. He flipped down sidelong on the bed, leaning on his elbow, reaching out to nuzzle his fingers into the soft top of Mustard's head, stroking tight circles into him. Bobby watched them interact, a smile on his face, reaching to cup John's face in his hand.

"Nice to be alone with you for a while," he said, fondly.

John nodded, nuzzling his cheek further against Bobby's grip.

"I love you, Bobby."

"I love you too."

It had been John's intention to speak to Bobby about his worries regarding their future. 

In the moment, watching his face, seeing the brightness in his eyes as he looked down at John, he faltered, unable to break the spell.

He moved up the bed, his lips meeting Bobby's, the two of them sinking together above the sheets.

* * *

In the other room, Isaac had returned, slinking inside in the dark.

Simon was upright, lit by the screen of his phone, looking up as he came in to meet Isaac's eyes. His expression was tight, eyes focused hard on Isaac as he stripped himself out of his clothes, jaw pulled taut. Isaac swallowed, his back turned to him, attempting to elongate the process of getting under the covers by folding up his t-shirt as carefully as possible. Unable to delay any longer, he moved over to the bed, pulling the covers over himself, laying flat on his back as Simon turned onto his side to face him. 

"John texted me," he said, trailing a finger down the side of Isaac's face, following the lines of the muscles in his arm until he met his fingers, which he grasped, weaving their digits together. "He said you think I'm mad at you."

"Wow. Didn't think he'd snitch on me like that," he said, aiming for humour.

Simon wasn't buying it, leaning closer, the warmth of his body seeping into Isaac's skin, still cold from the outside.

"I don't really give a shit if you smoke, Izzy."

"I just… I remember when we were out last time, and I went outside, you didn't look happy when you found me out there."

"That had nothing got to do with you, baby," Simon said, pulling Isaac into him, away from the edge of the bed. 

"What was it about? Because you were quiet the whole way home and I was totally freaked out."

"I'm sorry," he said, sighing over the top of Isaac's head, "I didn't wanna talk about it."

"Okay," he replied, unconvinced.

"I saw Eric."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Not a word. Looked scared, even. But still, I wasn't happy. I just wanted to find my baby boy again and take him home and hold him."

He squeezed Isaac as he spoke, the two of them rolling beneath the covers, until they faced one another, Isaac smiling once again.

"Sorry I got freaked out. I just… I love you a lot, and it makes me uneasy because we're so young and…"

Simon kissed his forehead.

"I know. It's the same for me. It always will be."

"You mean that?"

"I do."

Isaac's breath hitched, Simon chuckling above him.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I know."


	14. Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it from me now!  
> Hope you enjoyed us on this journey, whether you were here back in October, or if you're newly joining me.  
> Have fun, and I'll see you whenever I reappear, in whatever fandom tag that might be.

Simon awoke, groggy and dry-mouthed, inconsistent heat pressed along his body beneath the covers.

He was aware of a flat sensation of gooseflesh rising up his ribs, spreading across and down his arms, the spine-tingle of pleasure fizzing from his core out into his extremities. He was aware of the absence of the weight of Isaac's body against him, the pressure shifting across the mattress. He brought a hand down, his blind fingers coming swiftly into contact with the back of a neck, pearl-beaded in sweat already from the confines of the comforter and its exertions. He stroked a thumb up towards the ear, feeling the slightly deformed fold where it had been crushed by so many other bodies in their training and in their games. Isaac hummed as Simon's fingers reached for him, sending yet another rippling shudder through his limbs, arching his hips off the bed, pushing himself deeper, his grip on Isaac's neck hardening into a hold, keeping him there for a moment before letting him go, Simon's cock falling wetly against his stomach.

He dragged Isaac up the bed to meet his mouth, kissing him hard, butting their foreheads together like rams, Isaac's own hand still clutching at his bicep, thumb resting along the vein.

"I love it when you wake me up like that," Simon breathed, lips moving against Isaac's, his voice more of a rumbling buzz in the air than a sound.

"And I love waking up next to you, so it's all good."

"You gonna finish me off, or was that just your way of saying good morning?"

Isaac didn't reply, kissing him harder, grinning at the moan hastily stifled against his tongue, content at having punctured the wheel of Simon's half-hearted dominant streak. As much as Isaac enjoyed being manhandled, enjoyed being tossed around and held down, he felt it necessary to regularly remind Simon that they were both men, and that Isaac could give as good as he took. To that effect, he tugged at Simon's chest, grinding a nipple between his thumb and finger — a sensitivity they had discovered together, and which Isaac exploited whenever possible. Simon's head drew back, Isaac's hand quick to cover his mouth, to silence his groan before it could give them away. Early as it was — the sun barely risen, peeking pale and soft beneath the window blinds — they didn't need the whole building knowing what was going on. He leaned close, tongue wet against Simon's ear.

"Are you gonna be able to keep quiet?"

Simon nodded, almost frantic, sighing as Isaac moved down his body. Simon flung the covers to one side, leaving the two of them bare in the middle of the bed, Isaac between his legs. One arm snaked its way up Simon's torso, fingertips drifting teasing across his sensitive spots, his other hand gripped securely around Simon's base. Isaac whispered to him — loud enough to be heard from his position so far below him, his breath warm against Simon's balls.

"You really are the hottest fuckin' guy in the whole world to me, you know that?"

"Don't do that to me baby, please — I don't wanna cry while my dick is hard."

Isaac broke his composure, laughing softly, reaching with his tongue, probing the skin beyond where Simon's pouch hung. 

"Izzy… I love you baby."

Isaac chuckled against the spot on Simon's thigh into which he had sunk his teeth, pulling off to plant a kiss at the same spot. He pushed up into his elbows, watching Simon in the near-dark, head tilted.

"Don't start crying on me here, c'mon."

Simon laughed, a palm over his eyes, nodding.

"I know, I know," he replied, settling himself back, "Okay, okay — aggressive, sexy, deep voice, deep voice — let's go."

His hand returned to the back of Isaac's neck, pressing him roughly to Simon's stomach, the length of him insistently warm against the side of his face. He gripped it, rubbing it along Isaac's cheek, pulling it away as Isaac tried to reach for it with his mouth.

"Whose is it?" he asked, voice low, Isaac swallowing — as much as Isaac knew all of Simon's buttons and how to push them, the reverse was also very true.

"Yours," he whispered, eyes locked on the tip, glistening lightly.

Simon's grip tightened — wrong answer.

"Whose?"

"Yours… Daddy."

Simon released him, Isaac slightly disappointed in himself for how much of a turn-on that whole situation was. Internally, he shrugged, more concerned with what was in front of him, and how he was going to fit it all down his throat. 

Simon's display of dominance lasted about the length of time it took Isaac to take him into his mouth, melting beneath his touch, sinking into the mattress, fingers knotted in the sheets, head thrust back into his pillow as he clenched his jaw against the sounds clamouring to escape. Isaac didn't bother taking his time — he was as worked up as Simon. He brought his head up, dragging the rest of his body into a half-seated position, looming over Isaac's prone form to run a hand down his back. He watched Isaac grind his hips into the bed, wondering quietly if he could get off like that. The thought of it — along with another flick of Isaac's tongue as he reached the base of him, drove him closer to the edge, falling back on himself, one arm over his eyes.

"Izzy, baby, please…"

Isaac reached for his hand, letting their fingers come together, Simon kissing along his knuckles. He was quiet as he finished, the hand by Isaac's head clenching erratically in the covers as he willed himself silent, breathing heavily through his nose. He pawed at Isaac, pulling him up and into his arms, still gulping air, tucking him under his chin.

"My baby. My forever baby."

"I told you to stop saying that shit," Isaac said, face palpably warming against Simon's chest.

"What? Baby?"

"No — all that 'forever' crap. We're too young for all of that shit."

"I'll stop saying it when I stop believing it, and you can cry about it until then."

"You're a crazy person," he said, pausing to scratch at Simon's arm, "And I hate that I don't hate it."

"If the guys heard me talk to you the way I do, I'd never live it down."

"Oh please — if they heard what I called you a few minutes ago, I'd have to go into witness protection."

Simon huffed a laugh, shifting himself up and out of Isaac's embrace, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"You want me to get you off?" he asked, nodding at him inquiringly.

Isaac shrugged.

"I'm good. Can you get me some water though? I dunno why but it feels like I just got punched in the throat…"

Simon rolled his eyes, pulling on his shorts, slipping out into the main room. Jean and Ororo were sat at the kitchen island, heads close watching something on a phone propped up against their empty wine bottle from the night before. He waved as he approached, both of them looking up, Ororo's eyes rolling once up and down his body.

"Oh, y'all are awak-" he said, suddenly cut off by their fingers pressed to their lips, eyes gesturing to the futon, where Bobby and John still laid, asleep. He grimaced, watching John stir, turning onto his side to face Bobby, shrugging the covers over himself, nestling closer into his embrace, the two of them sighing. He made his way to the fridge, skirting past the girls where they sat, retrieving his and Isaac's water from the bare depths of it. 

"What are we doing today?" he asked, glancing over their shoulders at the phone, where they had pulled up a map of the area, highlighting stores they each wanted to visit.

"We were gonna go shopping," Ororo said with a shrug, Jean leaning in closer to the screen to inspect something.

Simon grimaced again, nose crinkling at the thought of wandering around looking at clothes all day.

"Pass. I think me and Izzy are gonna do our own thing — I don't really love the idea of spending my spring break in the shoe section of a Nordstrom's."

The girls shrugged as he moved around them, stooping low at the foot of the bed to pull Mustard up into his arm, the dog remaining asleep throughout his journey into the air.

"Suit yourself. I think those two have plans as well, so we can all just meet back here before the show I guess."

Simon left them, carrying Mustard like a limp football into the bedroom. Isaac was upright in bed, on his phone, face lighting up as Mustard approached. He had awoken by that point, wiggling in Simon's grip as Isaac reached for him. 

"There's my lil' man," he said, bundling Mustard into his arms, nails scratching behind his ears as the dog settled against him. Simon joined them, lying on his side, pressed up against Isaac, his palm tracing a track down Mustard's spine, watching as he softened into Isaac, sleep returning to him as quickly as it had departed. 

They shared a look, warm and pleased with one another, Simon leaning up to kiss him, sharing in the silence.

* * *

"They're all gone, if you're finished pretending to be asleep," Bobby whispered, lips close to John's cheek, feeling his grin stretch as he laughed.

"Sorry, I thought I was more convincing than that."

They each sat up, glancing blearily around the living room, the others long since departed. Bobby had been awoken by Jean and Ororo as they slipped out, eager to seek out their sales before all the good stuff was gone. John had been asleep throughout, still laid out heavily across Bobby's chest as if holding him down. Later, as Simon and Isaac had emerged out of their joined shower, he had committed to faking it, face pressed into Bobby's neck, lest he crack and give himself away. They had left with Mustard in tow, the clacking of his nails on the floor trailing off behind them.

They shifted themselves, backs against the cushions of the couch, John leaning against Bobby, head on his shoulder and both arms wrapped around one of his. Bobby leaned over, chin resting on John's head, breathing out over his hair, letting the two of them soak in their closeness, as if they hadn't already been pressed skin to skin for the entire night and most of the morning.

"So, you wanted to talk?"

"Oh," he replied, surprised that Bobby had remembered what John had whispered to him right before they had gone to sleep the night before, or that he was willing to broach the subject himself, "Yeah. I did."

"It's not anything bad, is it?"

"Just my neuroses," he sighed, shifting away so they could face one another, reaching for Bobby's hands to lace their fingers together.

"Take your time."

John rubbed at his temple, wishing there was an easier way to arrange his thoughts than via the outdated and inadequate mechanisms of his brain and tongue.

"So, I guess I should start by saying that I know that you're in love with me, and you're not the type to cheat, or anything like that."

Bobby nodded, eyes on John's, listening without presuming anything. He began to continue, cutting himself off, the words not right, his tone all wrong. He breathed heavily through his nose, Bobby swiping his thumb across the back of his hand in comfort, urging him on.

"And we're gonna be going to college soon, and obviously we don't know what the situation is gonna be but I don't think we're going to the same ones."

"Probably not, given that I didn't apply to yours, nor you to mine," he replied, grinning, John laughing self-consciously.

"Right. And I guess basically I'm just nervous because — as you know — I'm a worrier. And right now, I'm worrying that once we're apart, that other part of me — the little voice that I've been working so hard on keeping quiet — is going to start saying the worst. That I'm going to be sitting in my bed in my dorm, and it's going to tell me that you're cheating, or that you've given up on us, or that it's too much to be apart. And look," he continued, his other palm flat atop Bobby's own, "I  _ know _ that none of that is true. I know that. But you know, sometimes we need assurance."

"Of course, and I'll be there for you if you need that. You can call me whenever!"

John leaned against him, foreheads together, eyes closed.

"I know. But that's my issue. You've given me so much already Bobby, I don't want to take more out of you. I wanna be there for you, not you having to be there for me all the time."

Bobby shifted him, pulling John into his lap, arms strong around his back, holding him close. He nudged John's head up so they met eye to eye, Bobby's sparkling in the light, John's sheened lightly with a film of tears.

"This is a relationship, Johnny — not a business deal. I don't care how much you 'take' from me — because it's not taking! It's just me being here, because I want to be. And who says you don't help me, huh? Who says I don't have those same thoughts as you?"

John's eyes widened.

"You do?"

"Obviously! I'm in love with you, Johnny! And sometimes I wake up and there's an anxious feeling in my belly and it makes ne feel like I'm not good enough for you and why would you ever be with me and then I get a text from you and it makes me smile and the feeling goes away and-"

He cut himself off, his voice cracking up at the last moments, pulling John in again.

"You promise me you'll tell me if I'm being too much? That I'm putting too much pressure on you and you're stressed out?"

"Johnny, you-"

"You have to promise me."

"I promise."

He nodded, sealing their agreement with a kiss, holding Bobby's face in his hands.

"Sorry about all this. I just wanted to uhh… get it out of the way because I figured otherwise it would have gotten ugly."

"I understand! Thanks for, you know, talking to me about it and not letting it fester for months and explode in a really ugly and traumatic way."

They broke into embarrassed laughter, rolling onto their sides once again, Bobby stamping kisses wherever he could reach, John laughing and awash in his embrace. He reached for Bobby with his own lips whenever there was a free moment, their playfulness deepening into a more earnest want, slowing as their mouths moved together, as Bobby shifted their hips to grind against one another. John held Bobby's face close with a hand in his hair, dragging him upwards so John could reach his throat, sucking hard, Bobby groaning above him.

"Can we have sex, or is your head still all messed up?"

John laughed, muffled against Bobby's saliva-wet skin, thumping him gently in his side.

"I was planning on it. I need to reassert my masculinity after all this crybaby bullshit. Go get ready."

He shoved Bobby off, grinning at his incredulous face, head shaking.

"This dick better be worth that or else I'm gonna kick your ass."

"You already know it is," he said, calling after him as he ducked into the bathroom, throwing John his middle finger as his only response.

In the midst of it, John — face pocked with sweat, threatening to drip into Bobby's mouth, permanently open in a prolonged moan — spoke to Bobby, his voice out of breath, some seeking emotion playing beneath his outward bravado as he did his best to turn Bobby's insides to mush. 

"I'll never get tired of this."

Bobby nodded — beyond words, at that point — reaching down behind John to pull him closer, as if that were possible. They came in unison — a first, without prior planning — their mouths full of each other, heartbeats pounding in the meagre space between their scorching bodies. They collapsed together, John splayed across Bobby's chest, their cheeks touching, one of John's hands stretched wide across Bobby's ribs, counting his breaths as they slowed to his resting rate.

"Well," Bobby began, once he had gotten himself under control, "People say make-up sex is good, but have they considered 'serious conversation about your feelings and anxieties about your relationship' sex?"

John snorted, huffing laughter into Bobby's neck.

"It's not as catchy — too many words."

Bobby was quiet for a moment, pulling John's face up so they laid eye to eye.

"Don't take this the wrong way but you're a great top for someone who doesn't have a monster in his jockeys."

"Wow."

"Come on!"

"No, I know. You have to know what you're doing when you've only got so much rope to swing around, you know?"

"I do know, actually — which is why I'm mostly a bottom. Use your assets to your advantage, and all."

John kissed him in lieu of a response, the warmth of his lips more of a praise of Bobby's body than any words could muster. They laid in the pleasant heat — and the uncomfortable damp — of the sheets for some time, unwilling to leave the quiet comfort of each other's company. It was only the buzz of John's phone, from the floor by the side of the bed, which drew him away, his Dad's contact flashing on the screen.

_ Have fun at that gig tonight _

_ If you get arrested for being at the bar and need bail call Logan _

_ (He's got all the money) _

John laughed, flashing the text to Bobby, who inspected it, a grin on his face.

"Is your Dad's man hot?" he asked, swinging himself upright, reaching for John, who only stared, face veering on disgust.

"Bobby… ew, no."

"Hey! The boyfriend isn't related to you, that's not weird!"

John rolled his eyes, allowing himself to be hauled up, the two of them gathering their clothes and making for the bathroom.

"I guess, I dunno. He's built, that's for sure. Lotta hair. Short."

"Does it weird you out that you and your Dad kinda have the same type? Muscle guys?" 

Bobby fiddled with the shower as he adjusted the temperature, and as such didn't notice John come to a complete standstill behind him, staring into space. As he glanced over his shoulder at him, John broke, face creasing in despair.

"It does now!"

* * *

John could still hear the music from outside — clanging percussion muffled on its journey through the walls of the venue and into the night.

He had dipped outside for a smoke, trying to stand enough away from the other patrons that they wouldn't try to imbricate him into their groups. The crowd was a little older — a bunch of college students too cool for Mexico and too unique and punk to go home to their parents for Spring Break. Thus, they had all found themselves, a couple miles down the highway from families pretending to have a good time on the Great Lakes, slumming it in a hole in the wall bar for the night. 

He had enjoyed himself, despite the scenery — despite the door guy's surly insistence that the group be stamped with red X's across the backs of their hands so they wouldn't be served at the bar. All but Simon and Isaac — the latter's ID a competently made fake that was enough to convince the slightly cockeyed security, and the former who used his older brother's, the two of them practically identical. And so, they were inside, getting progressively drunker and more into one another as the night wore on. 

John stubbed out his smoke, tossing it and turning back inside, pushing past a sweaty crush of bodies to find his way back to Bobby and the rest of them. They had installed themselves by a wall on the left hand of the stage, carving out enough space that they could see their friends perform without becoming lost in the sea of messy college students tossing in the small space. Bobby looked up as he approached, reaching for him, pulling him to his front, arms around his stomach. In front of them stood Jean and Ororo, doing their best imitation of a pair of stage moms, phones pointed directly at the band, Ororo's hand constantly waving to grab their attention. Simon and Isaac had forgone any pretensions of enjoying the music, Isaac pressed up against the wall as Simon loomed over him, one arm braced against the exposed bricks. Isaac reached around his hip, drawing Simon into him, catching his fall with his mouth on Simon's, their drinks dangling, perilously forgotten in their hands. 

John let the music wash over him, the pulsing thump of the instruments blending with his and Bobby's heartbeats, resonating in his head. He gave Bobby's hand a squeeze, feeling his cheek brush up against John's, content to be held.

The band finished their set, Ororo making sure to be the last person heard screaming for them, long after everyone else had stopped. The band bowed, sweating but exhilarated, and began gathering their equipment. The sudden absence of noise startled Simon away from Isaac, who blinked himself back to reality, straightening where he had slumped against the wall, held up by Simon's arm. 

"What's up? Are we sticking around?" he asked, words slurring slightly from the number of cheap, strong beers the two of them had put away. 

Jean shrugged, looking to Ororo, who was rapidly texting. Feeling five pairs of eyes on her, she looked up from her phone.

"Oh, no. The girls have to drive back to the city tonight — they've got another gig tomorrow evening. So I guess we can go whenever?"

They all shrugged, not exactly enamoured with the setting once the promise of seeing their friends perform had been fulfilled. They began shrugging on coats — left at Simon and Isaac's feet so as not to be disturbed — making their way to the door. It was only as they had managed to squeeze once again through the near-impenetrable crowd of people blocking their way that Isaac stopped, tugging on Simon's sleeve.

"I gotta use the bathroom."

Simon's face shifted from mild frustration to urgent need in a moment, nodding along. He turned to the others, waving them off.

"We'll catch up."

They left, not without some collective rolling of the eyes, trudging up the empty street back to their apartment. They didn't speak much — ears still ringing from the onslaught of the music blasting through the venue's outdated speakers. The apartment was as they left it, the television still playing a YouTube playlist of videos for dogs which they had put on to keep Mustard's attention while they were gone. It didn't appear to have worked, given that the dog was nowhere to be seen, the door to Simon and Isaac's room slightly ajar, the distant sound of his snoring rumbling out into the living room. John ducked in to check on him, returning with a smile on his face, chuckling to himself, waving off Bobby's questioning face.

"It's fine, he's fine. Don't go in, you'll wake him up."

Jean and Ororo changed quickly out of their clothes and into their sweatpants, shedding their tight jeans and uncomfortable shoes, dragging out a blanket with them as they settled together on one of the couches. John and Bobby got the futon out, changing under the covers to preserve their modesty, Bobby kicking his jeans out from under the comforter and onto the floor.

"They better be in your bag before we go to sleep," John said, eyeing him sternly, "We gotta be out early tomorrow and I don't want you whining because you still have to pack."

"Whatever, Mom. I'll get it."

John huffed, but allowed Bobby to pull him in, the four of them enthralled by the puppy videos for an uncomfortable amount of time before they switched over to something appropriate for humans. Shortly after, there was the scuffling sound of two bodies working themselves up the stairs of the building, followed by Simon and Isaac pushing through the door after some scratching of the key in the general area of the lock. Jean's eyes narrowed onto Isaac as he hurried to the fridge, narrowing in on a dark stain down the front of his shirt. Simon caught her looking, throwing her a lopsided grin as he shrugged his jacket off. 

"He threw up on the way back, he's fine."

Isaac raised his middle finger to Simon as he gulped down cold water, breathing heavily as he refilled his flask.

"Yeah," he added, sounding as though his throat was full of gravel, " _ Someone  _ thought it'd be cute to get me to bl-"

"Hey hey! They don't need to hear all of that!" Simon said, dragging his hand across his throat in the universal sign for 'cut that shit out'.

Isaac waved him off, taking a second series of swigs from his flask, before refilling it a final time. Settling finally with a sigh, he looked around the floor, noting the suspicious absence of a jiggling pile of fur and jowls, clamouring at his feet for his attention. 

"Where's my lil' man?"

John flashed him a grin, nodding his head to the bedroom, Isaac throwing him a confused look as he strolled inside. Simon watched on from where he stood, Isaac returning just as quickly, hand over his mouth.

"Simon… go look at him. Please."

Simon brushed past, his exclamation quickly quashed, his teeth sunk into his knuckles.

"Can someone please tell me what is going on in there?" Bobby asked, frustrated at being kept out of the loop.

"He's just sleeping, but he's… he's like snoring like a cartoon," Isaac explained, doubled over in teary laughter, "It's like a motorbike revving and then his little cheeks are just flapping… I can't with him."

One by one they crept in to look at Mustard, who remained asleep, oblivious to their doting faces. 

"Are you guys staying up long?" Simon asked, emerging from the bathroom in his sweats, hands on his hips as he observed Isaac where he was sprawled across the free couch.

He was met by a collective shrug, breathing heavily through his nose.

"Probably a little while, why?" Ororo offered, her eyes falling sympathetically to him.

"I gotta drive again tomorrow," he said, nails scratching at his stomach under his shirt, "I was gonna go sleep, I don't wanna be drunk still when we get up to leave."

He looked to Isaac expectantly, met by a silent wave of his hand, Isaac perfectly content to stay up longer. His brow furrowed, verging on annoyance.

"I'll be in soon, baby, go ahead."

"You better," he replied, his voice hard, his face soft behind the others' shoulders, his bottom lip jutting out.

"You're gonna be in trouble," Bobby teased, as the door was shut, the sound of Mustard cut off, leaving just the hum of the television.

"He's fine. He's just sore because he wanted to fool around."

"That didn't seem to go too well for you earlier, huh?" Jean asked, one eyebrow raised. Isaac shrugged, letting it drop, pulling off his soiled shirt, tossing it towards his and Simon's door before settling shirtless back into his couch.

"Isn't it weird that this is our last year of all being together in the same place?" Isaac asked after a long period of silence, his voice issuing out slow and slurred from beneath the arm crooked over his face.

There was an uncomfortable moment as his words sank in, Ororo the first to respond.

"I guess. But it's not like anyone is going across the country, right? Aren't we all gonna be like max two states over?"

She looked around as she spoke, her gaze searching the others for their responses, met mostly by nods.

"Me and Simon are planning on going to the same college," he explained, "He's already in on a scholarship — I just gotta keep my grades where they are more or less."

"Are you gonna room together?" John asked, ginning in his direction.

"If they let us," Isaac answered, with a shrug.

"Me and Johnny talked last night about the whole long distance thing," Bobby said, squeezing John's shoulder, John placing a kiss just behind his ear as he went on, "We were both a little freaked out about it."

"Ugh, you  _ talked  _ about it? Already?" Ororo asked, somewhere between disgust and incredulity, "Why didn't you just let it get really ugly and blow up in your faces like normal people?"

They laughed, shrugging in unison.

"Who's doing prom?" Jean asked.

Isaac gestured towards himself with his thumb, Ororo nodding in assent. Bobby and John shook their heads, Bobby's smile wide.

"We're gonna pass and go get high in John's back yard."

"Probably have sex after."

"That's what I wanted!" Isaac said, sitting up on the couch, jerking his head at the closed door of the bedroom, "But that dumbass went and got us tickets anyway. So now I gotta go rent a stupid suit and go and dance with my stupid boyfriend and tell him I love him in front of everyone at school."

He rose, stretching, shaking his head to clear the last of the drunken fog before attempting to make his way over to the bedroom, bidding them all silently goodnight with a wave. There were a few moments of quiet scuffling once again as he presumably undressed and worked his way under the covers, silence falling again shortly after. Jean and Ororo took that as their cue, slinking off as one beneath their blanket mass, Bobby and John left to sink beneath the covers, the TV still flickering over Bobby's face as John curled into him, asleep in moments.

* * *

May, Senior Year 

"Baby, please, just one dance."

Isaac shook his head, steadfast against Simon's protestations, refusing to join him on the dance floor. His suit didn't fit right, pinching him in the sides where he had put on a few pounds since earlier that year — the honeymoon fifteen, as his mother had termed it. He felt exposed, the pair of them sticking out like two sore thumbs among their peers, apparently the only gay couple in the school — and there were a few, by that point — who had actually decided to go to prom that year. It felt like he was under a magnifying glass, every eye on the building on him lugging around his bulk next to Simon, who seemed to flow through the crowd of their classmates as if he were made of water. He felt awkward, unsuitable, as if he didn't belong. 

And so he had confined himself to a table, shared by only the lowest of the low of their year — the sniffly, put-upon nerd, nervously shuffling a Magic The Gathering deck between his hands which he had inexplicably brought with him; a sour-faced goth, who had arrived at prom alone as an act of protest against what she had deemed a 'patriarchal performance of female oppression'; and Laura, the school's resident horse girl, whose date was outside, tied to a fence post after having been refused entry on the grounds that all guests must walk on two legs.

Simon had been busy — seeing to his duties as the school's perennial stud, doing his rounds among the football players, the not-quite-cool-enough kids, as well as everyone in between. Isaac watched his head bob above the others, his frame still one of the tallest in the school, instantly recognizable to Isaac's trained eye. He wasn't bitter, wasn't coughing up bile at the prospect of his boyfriend having fun without him. Rather, he simply wished he could have stayed at home, could have let Simon have a night to himself, leaving Isaac free to lounge around in his sweats until it was time to pick him up. He had reappeared, red-faced and breathless from his navigating through the crowd, bending low to meet Isaac in a sweet, apologetic kiss. 

"I really don't wanna, Si," he replied, attempting to flash him a grin, only managing a flash of his teeth. 

Simon nodded, defeated, folding himself into a chair by Isaac's side, watching the other couples out on the dance floor sway and grind with one another — seemingly oblivious to the prying eyes of their teachers waiting in the wings. Isaac watched him — watched his face as he attempted to hide his genuine disappointment, watched guilt pull his face down as he chewed on a thumbnail. He reached for him, standing, their fingers locking together, Simon looking up to him, bewildered.

"C'mon. You get one."

"Baby, you don't have to…"

Isaac shook his head, nodding towards the crowd.

"Before I change my mind."

Simon frowned at him — his bottom lip protruding in mock-sadness — bundling Isaac into his arms.

"Thank you baby," he said, peppering kisses across his face, "Just one, I promise."

Isaac allowed himself to be pulled within the undulating crowd, he and Simon shuffling their way through swaying couples, too engrossed with each other to notice the two lumbering hulks in their midst. Simon found an empty spot on the floor, room enough for two, and settled them both there. 

"Should I be the guy?" he asked, grinning.

Isaac rolled his eyes, "Only because you're taller than me, asshole."

Simon laughed, loud, his head thrown back, before returning to Isaac, one arm around his waist, his other hand guiding Isaac's to hold it away from their bodies, the two of them swaying in time with the music. 

Isaac wanted to make a joke of it, to tease Simon about their little fairy pantomime. Yet, watching Simon's face, he found himself transfixed by the look of contentment, the twitch of his bottom lip as he held back some unnamable flood of emotion.

"You're my forever, Izzy. I know you don't believe in all that shit, but I do."

His words knocked the breath out of Isaac, stole his clever retort straight from him, the void filled with only a stunned silence.

"You know," Isaac replied, leaning into Simon, letting their cheeks come together as they swayed, "I make fun of you for that shit because it scares me to think of forever."

"What do you mean?" he asked softly, lips grazing Isaac's ear.

"I mean the idea that you might be the only guy I ever fall in love with is scary as shit, man."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes I think of what happens if you're gone."

Simon's breath caught in his throat, the hand on Isaac's hip clenching almost to a fist.

"Don't say that. When I say I'm here forever, I mean forever."

"But-"

"No buts, Izzy. You're my forever."

Isaac acquiesced to him, the two of them having found their way to the centre of the floor in their gentle movements, caught in the eye of the circle of bodies.

"You're my forever too, Simon. You know that, right?"

"I know, I know."

They held each other, even as the song ended, even as their classmates began to stare.

* * *

"Simon and Isaac got best couple at prom," John said, tilting his body to show Bobby his phone screen, the two of them sat on his porch, a joint each between their fingers. It was a photo, the two of them in their suits, standing on the makeshift stage that had been erected for the lackluster band to play on. Simon had Isaac under one arm, brandishing a bouquet of cheap flowers over his head like a trophy, the two of them smiling wide at the camera.

"We shoulda gone," Bobby replied, smoke spilling out around his words, "We coulda won that instead."

"You think?"

He nodded, returning his arm to John's waist, fingers drawing lines up and down the skin beneath his shirt.

"Easily."

"Did you want to go? I know you said you didn't care, but you do have a habit of letting me have my way most of the time."

He shrugged.

"I really wasn't attached to the idea one way or another. It would have been nice to have the experience I guess, but like I really would not have wanted to be there the entire fucking night. Besides," he added, "Simon said you guys' one was really heavily chaperoned — how the fuck was anyone supposed to get drunk?"

"Oh, I think they're all doing a big ass party after finals for that," John explained, tapping through his phone to find the invitation he had ignored. He unearthed it from a text thread with a classmate he barely spoke to, flashing it to Bobby, who nodded.

"Do you wanna go to that?"

"I'm visiting my Dad that weekend. You should go, though, I can forward this invitation to you."

"I'm not going without you."

John chuckled into his neck, planting a kiss at the collar of his t-shirt, the cool of his chain catching against John's lips as he pulled away.

"Next time we get the chance to go to a big dance like that will probably be our wedding," Bobby said, barking a laugh as he tossed the butt of his smoke. John nodded, finishing his own, eyes on a spot on the grass in front of them.

"Probably."

He felt Bobby's head turn, felt his eyes on him, his grin faltering.

"Thought that might have caught you off guard."

"Not a chance," John replied, pushing himself further into Bobby's side, an arm flat across his stomach.

"Which one of us is wearing the dress?"

John broke, finally, giggling into the side of Bobby's face, his laughter coming in great waves, the two of them left in tatters on the porch, lying flat against the wood. 

"Everything aside, I'm glad we did this tonight, instead of going to prom, or whatever."

"Yeah," Bobby replied, reaching for John's hand to knot their fingers together, "This is better."

"You do wanna get married, right?"

Bobby was quiet for a moment, so quiet that John feared he might have fallen asleep, before he spoke.

"I do, yeah. Just, not soon. I want us to wait, until we're done with college, and maybe have real jobs and a place of our own. I wanna do it right."

John sat up, arms around his knees, Bobby watching him from the floor.

"C'mon," he said, jerking his head behind them, "Let's go to bed."

Bobby held his arm up, the rest of his body limp against the wood, waiting for John to reach for him and pull. He remained still, John heaving at him, giving up with a huff, kneeling by Bobby's head, brushing their lips together.

"So you're not carrying me?"

John left him, wandering the lower floor of the house, checking the locks on the front door, listening out for the sounds of Bobby scrabbling as he brought himself up and inside. They went upstairs together, undressing in the soft light of John's bedside lamp, taking their time with one another, letting fingers ghost across flesh, eyes closed. John brought his arms around Bobby's shoulders, loose, pulling their faces together, a soft groan escaping from Bobby's lips as they parted to meet him. They stood like that, swaying gently, John taking in the feeling of Bobby's muscles grinding up against him as they moved. He lifted him — a single, simple movement, as if John weighed nothing at all — hoisting his legs around Bobby's waist, still unmoving from where they were rooted on the floor. Bobby's hands were warm against his back and under his ass, John humming against him, bringing his mouth down to Bobby's neck as he walked them carefully over to the bed, laying him down gently, limbs still holding him close.

"You still good to go?" Bobby asked, the length of him pressed up against John.

"I mean, I'd love a little grease on the wheels but other than that, yeah."

"It's more of a pole," Bobby chuckled, leaning over him to retrieve their bottle, flicking the cap open, reaching between them, grinning as John hissed against the cold.

"They need to come up with a formula for that stuff that stays warm."

"We're almost out, by the way," Bobby said, lining himself up, "And it's your turn to buy."

John made to retort, the sound stretching into a moan as Bobby pressed into him, grunting finally as he made it all the way. He grimaced against the discomfort, Bobby soothing him with a line of kisses down the side of his neck.

"Eager tonight, huh?"

"It's easier if you do it all at once. I'm not gonna move 'til you tell me to."

John nodded, breathing slow and deep, calming himself, allowing his body to wash in the sensation of Bobby's weight against him.

"I love you, Bobby."

"I love you too."

"At least we still got to have prom night sex."

"True."

"Just don't get me pregnant, or anything."

Bobby rolled his eyes as John laughed, shifting his hips, cutting the sound off as soon as it began.

"If you can make jokes I guess that means you're relaxed enough, huh?"

"You're terrible to me."

"Awful."

"Truly evil."

They kissed, Bobby moving in earnest, one arm around John's neck, holding his forehead to Bobby's. They didn't bother with the usual rigmarole of switching positions to please a non-existent audience squeezed into the room with them. Instead, Bobby focused on John's face, watching his expressions shift as they moved, feeling his nails as they dug in and relaxed alternatively.

"What do you need? Faster, slower — talk to me."

John shook his head, swallowing heavily, lost in himself.

"Just like this. This is perfect. You're perfect."

* * *

Lying together afterwards, hair still damp from their shower, John turned away from the computer screen where it was playing an inoffensive teen comedy, pulling Bobby's half-asleep attention to him once again.

"I'm about ready to go to sleep, if you wanna keep watching."

Bobby nodded, widening the berth of his arms for John to move closer to him, the warmth of his face pressed to Bobby's heart.

"G'night, Johnny."

He didn't respond, already asleep by the time Bobby's words reached him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you again soon.
> 
> If you enjoyed, be sure to check out the rest of the X-Men series, as well as my other fandom stuff.
> 
> Love you all.


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